


Le Festin

by Pthithia



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Relationships, F/M, Javert is not the bad guy, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Ratatouille AU, Redemption, Slow Burn, gratuitous food references, with no rats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-06-22 03:26:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15572703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pthithia/pseuds/Pthithia
Summary: After finding himself out of a job again, with little other options left, Grantaire takes a job in the once-reputable, gourmet restaurant Gusteau's. It's not long, however, before he becomes immersed in the world of haute cuisine and those who run it.(A Ratatouille AU without the rats.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just really love Pixar. I do not own any part of Ratatouille or its story. I really hope this hasn't been done before.
> 
> A few notes before this begins:  
> Éponine, Gavroche and M. Thénardier all appear in this story, but he is not their father or related to them.  
> This story takes place somewhere in the early 2000s (the movie was released in 2007), which explains a lack of more sophisticated technology.  
> I am not an expert in gourmet kitchen etiquette or lingo. I love to cook and have had a lot of help from google while writing this.  
> I also do not speak fluent French, hence the reason it is used so sparingly. I'm praying my definitions are right.

Just another block over. He still had time to turn around. Turn around and go anywhere but there.

Grantaire glanced at his old and worn wristwatch. 11:48. He still had time. For a moment, he considered it. Simply turning around, walking away, and going anywhere else, interview be damned.

He sighed, pausing on a street corner. He needed this job. More than anything. And it was his last chance.

Feet dragging as though made of lead, Grantaire made his way another street over to a bustling and busy roundabout. A nice little street, home to a few luxury shops and tourist traps, a large fountain in the center, all classic Parisian edifices. The entire street, however, was dominated by a large, ornamental building. Stone, wrought iron, glass, and a currently dark sign reading _Gusteau's_. It wasn't obvious now at midday, but Grantaire knew that by night the elegant sign glowed a warm red, three of the five stars below it lit up.

He glanced again at his watch. 11:56.

It took a deep breath and another reminder of his current situation to force himself to walk around to the back of the restaurant, in a little side alley. It was darker there, under shade from the close-neighboring buildings. A few crates and empty boxes were stacked near the pair of heavy wooden doors he knew must lead to the kitchens. His knuckles sounded loud and heavy against them, though he knew the bustling city outside must be louder.

It was a moment before the door swung open. A woman with long hair and a no-nonsense expression poked her head out, one eyebrow arched.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm Grantaire, I'm here for a job interview with Monsieur Fauchelevant."

Her stern face melted into a knowing smile. "I see. Come right in."

She stepped back, pulling the door open wider. "Careful, there's a step up. Monsieur Fauchelevant mentioned he had an interview today, but I wasn't sure at what time."

Grantaire followed her in. This was definitely the kitchen. Big and gleaming and bustling already with at least a dozen people, despite the restaurant's late opening time.

"I'm Musichetta, head of the wait staff." She held out her hand, and Grantaire shook it. Her grip was warm, and confident. When Grantaire felt it, he made his own better.

"Nice to meet you."

"Have you ever worked in a restaurant before?"

Grantaire never had, and had hoped to never have to, work in a restaurant. "Oh, a few places here and there. Nothing like this, though."

She nodded. "Fauchelevant's office is this way."

He followed her past the main part of the kitchen (mercifully given no curious looks from the chefs) to a door in the corner of the large space. Musichetta rapped sharply on it twice before swinging it open. "Monsieur Grantaire is here," she said to the person inside. They muttered something back Grantaire didn't hear.

Musichetta turned back to him with a bright smile. "Good luck!" And like that, she turned and left through a large pair of swinging doors.

Grantaire stepped into the office. It was surprisingly small, dark, and cluttered. Heavy bookshelves lined the walls, and at the back there was a simple desk with two chairs. One of them was occupied by a man, nearing his middle years. He was writing something when Grantaire came in, but said, "Come in, monsieur, and shut the door. The kitchen can get a bit noisy, I'm afraid." His voice was reassuring and paternal, and Grantaire felt a bit relieved. At least this man didn't seem so bad.

After a moment, he dropped his pen and stood to greet Grantaire. He was surprisingly tall, though graying, and smiled pleasantly. "I'm Monsieur Fauchelevant, a pleasure to meet you."

"Grantaire. Thank you for making time for me." Grantaire smiled, shook his hand, nodded politely. Interviews were always easy. The jobs themselves...

"Of course! Not a problem at all. I manage several businesses, but I always make it a point to conduct interviews myself. I want to be familiar with every face in my employ." He was still smiling. "Can I offer you anything? Coffee, water?"

"No, thank you." Grantaire took the seat Fauchelevant indicated. "This building is lovely."

"Ah, thank you. Yes, it was a bit of prime real estate when Gusteau and I bought it." Fauchelvant took the other seat. "So, let's see..." he withdrew a thin file from a stack of papers on his desk. "Monsieur Grantaire, here we are." He flipped it open, scanning through. "Where were you previously employed?"

"An art shop. Selling and commissions."

"An artist!" He nodded. "Yes, it says here a few years at art school. You must be good."

Grantaire felt himself warm, but mercifully did not blush. "Thank you, Monsieur Fauchelevant, but I'm not sure I can vouch for that."

"Nonsense," he said casually. "And please, just Valjean will do. You know, cooking is an art form itself- full of passion, inspiration, creation. Just ask anyone out there." He nodded towards the closed door, smiling thoughtfully.

Grantaire nodded. "Of course."

Valjean's eyes flickered back to the papers in his hand. "And I see... yes, a few years spent there..."

"I hope that's not a problem," Grantaire said quickly, hoping to cut off any thoughts before they could grow.

"Of course not. Kitchens are full of people from different walks of life. They all have the potential to be great." He closed the file without a further look. "Well, Grantaire, everything appears to be in order. All we really need at the moment is an _escuelerie_ , you know, just dishwashing and taking out the garbage. But I have no doubt you shall become a valuable part of our kitchen here."

Caught off guard when Valjean stood and held out his hand, Grantaire jumped up and shook it. His grip was just as firm as Musichetta's. "Thank you, sir."

"Come, I'll have you set up in no time. Now, as you know, the restaurant doesn't open until the evening, but that should give you more than enough time to learn the basics."

Grantaire followed Valjean back into the kitchen and towards a station on the other end of the kitchen, where a bald man was scrubbing down a set of copper pots.

"This is L'Aigle, our kitchenhand. He'll show you the ropes. L'Aigle, this is Grantaire, our new dishwasher."

The bald man turned around. Unlike Musichetta or Valjean, he looked happy from the start, widely grinning. "Good to have you here. Things start to pile up on my own, I'm buried in dishes most nights," he said, not an inch of spite or weariness in his voice.

"Good luck, Grantaire, and welcome to the team." Valjean gave him one last reassuring smile before heading back to his office.

"Good man, Valjean. You'll like him, he's an excellent boss," L'Aigle chatted, rinsing off his work and drying his hands. "Too bad he's not here most days. A lot of other places to manage."

"Right." Grantaire felt at least some of his nerves leave. Three out of three encounters so far had gone extraordinarily well. "So you're the other dishwasher?"

"Most days, yeah. I also wash the food, peel it, do general prep. Basically anything the *chefs de partie* can't be bothered to do." He winked.

"I see. And- sorry, what was your name again?"

"Just call me Bossuet. L'Aigle is a bit of a mouthful. C'mon, let's find you a uniform and get you set up here."

*

The first day was... strangely okay. At least, for Grantaire's track record of first days. Bossuet proved to be a calming presence in the hectic and crowded kitchen, easily guiding Grantaire through his new duties in the kitchen (mopping, taking out the trash, washing dishes, and wiping down surfaces) all while keeping up an easy and effortless banter. Grantaire decided he liked this Bossuet.

Over the evening, his counterpart pointed out the other members of the kitchen staff. The kind-looking _patissier_ , Jehan, who shot him a few friendly smiles during the night. The _saucier_ , Montparnasse, and the _entremetier_ Éponine, both equally sharp and focused as they squabbled over recipes and space on their neighboring stovetops. The _boucher_ , a short woman Bossuet said was called Cossette, and was Valjean's daughter. Her apron was spattered with blood from the meat, and every once in a while she would also smile at him from across the kitchen, looking sweet and welcoming. Grantaire even spotted Musichetta a few times, expediting orders and helping the wait staff carry them out.

Even with the dinner rush, which lived up to Bossuet's claims of burying them in dishes, the shift went by fairly quickly for Grantaire, and before long it was closing time. He and Bossuet finished one last wipe down of the massive kitchen as the rest of the staff slowly packed up and left through the heavy wood doors Grantaire had entered that morning.

"So, what do you think so far?" Bossuet asked, removing his toque to place it in the supply closet near the door.

"Actually, based on my past job experiences, not so bad." Grantaire grinned at him and did the same.

"Why's that?"

"I dunno, just have a rough track record with jobs, I guess. But so far this seems okay."

Bossuet laughed. "Just wait until you meet the head chef."

They said their goodbyes in the alley outside, and parted ways. Grantaire began the long walk back to his apartment, slowly taking in the events of the day.

*

It was a small place,and relatively new to Grantaire. Old, dingy, barely one room with a partition.

Well. It was a classic big city apartment, at least. Bare lightbulb, crumpled old wallpaper, creaky wood floors, barely 40 meters of space. But better than nothing. And with the new job that didn't seem to be going downhill yet, and a fairly docile landlady, it seemed to him as though he might actually be able to stay for a while.

And the view was incredible. The furthest wall from the door was mostly made up of one large window; dirty and cracked, but offering a huge, sweeping landscape of Paris, the Eiffel Tower smack in the middle of it all. If Grantaire could still afford canvases (and the space to store them) he might spend the whole night just painting it.

Wishful thinking never got anyone anywhere. He shrugged off his new uniform, all white with an obscene amount of buttons, and folded it. He couldn't imagine showing up in a sleep-rumpled uniform to his new job would leave a good impression.

He fell asleep that night on his narrow sofa, feeling hopeful that maybe, for once in his life, things were going to go well for him.

*

To Grantaire's continued amazement, work at Gusteau's proved to be completely average. No catastrophes or massive screw ups, or arguments with coworkers. It was actually a kind of nice change of pace.

After the first week, Bossuet eased up on Grantaire's training. At least now, he was running the dishwashing station himself while Bossuet attended to other chefs individually. For a former 5 star restaurant with a failing reputation, after the death of its founding namesake, the restaurant seemed to run smoothly and with high standards.

Over the first few days, Grantaire had come to know the other people in the kitchen: Combeferre, the _sous chef_ , a polite but focused man; Enjolras, the head _chef de partie_ , a beautiful blonde who always had a powerful air of command around him; the _grillardin_ Joly and his extreme attention to detail; the training _commis chef_ Marius, Valjean's son-in-law; and Musichetta's wait staff of three men: Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Bahorel.

Despite their quirks and eccentricities, Grantaire was relieved to find them all polite and relatively kind. But the head chef himself, in charge of the entire kitchen...

Bossuet had made a mountain into a molehill with his joke on Grantaire's first day. By far, Thénardier was the least pleasant person Grantaire had ever had the pleasure of meeting. Tall, scrawny, perpetually screaming at one member of his staff or another when he wasn't lurking around the kitchen and watching them all at work. For their part, the chefs minded their business, perfect poker faces and apathetic expressions when Thénardier's rage was directed at someone new.

"He and Valjean go way back," Bossuet had muttered to Grantaire one morning after Thénardier demanded they rewash an entire cart of dishes. "Not sure how, but they knew each other before they worked here. Thénardier was the sous when Gusteau was still alive."

Whatever the backstory, Grantaire was determined not to get on Thénardier's bad side. Keep his head down, do his job, and get paid. That was all he needed to do.

Valjean had not been back to the restaurant since Grantaire's first day. However, despite his dislike of the head chef, and the mind-numbingly boring job he held, Grantaire appreciated the old man giving him the job in a record short (for him) interview. And Grantaire couldn't help but find himself slightly fascinated by the new, bustling culinary world around him.

*

Three weeks after Grantaire had landed his job, a particularly heavy dinner rush hit. It was a Friday, and a holiday, which meant the restaurant was twice as busy as it usually was. That night, the kitchen seemed overcrowded and fast-paced, confusion everywhere. People shouted across the kitchen for help, the waiters called out orders, pots and pans clanged and all over the kitchen was the sounds of good food being made.

"Ready to go on table seven!"

"Three filet working, I need plates!"

"Open down low! Hot! Open oven!"

"Fire those souffles for table six!"

"Where is my table nine? I need table nine!"

"Five minutes!"

Near the grilling station, Feuilly knocked into Marius, who had been holding a heavy pan of steamed vegetables. It clattered to the ground, hot food spilling everywhere as Thénardier shouted for it to be cleaned up. Bossuet immediately sprung to action, dashing in with a broom, and Grantaire, knowing he should probably help, grabbed his mop. Turning back to assess the mess, Grantaire swung the mop handle directly into the huge pot of soup on the stove in the sauce station. It came down with a mighty crash, soup splashing everywhere. At the same moment, Courfeyrac called out an order of three salade composee and Joly's filet caught fire, creating enough confusion that nobody even glanced at Grantaire.

He grabbed the scalding hot copper pot and deposited it back on the stove, hurriedly running the mop over the mess. Okay. Almost half the soup was gone. The obvious choice was to tell someone - Montparnasse or Éponine, both of them were in charge of the soups.

Frankly, they both seemed intimidating and not likely to be pleased.

Grantaire took a deep breath and glanced around. Nobody had even looked his way yet, as more orders came up and Combeferre helped put out the fire.

He had to move quickly. The sauce station was already set up mise en place, thankfully, every ingredient carefully prepared and set up for use. Hardly thinking at all, he dumped in heavy cream and what looked like broth - anything to make up for lost liquid. A quick stir, some garlic, some green things, more stirring.

Oh god. This wasn't right at all. What had previously been a deep red bisque had turned light and cream-colored. What had he been thinking? He didn't know anything about cooking at all!

"Where's that soup? I need more soup bowls!"

"Soup! Let's move it!" Thénardier stormed over to the sauce station. "We need- _what are you doing?_ "

Thénardier snatched the ladle from Grantaire, face going red as he took in the scene. "What is this? You are cooking in *my* kitchen?" he snarled, grabbing a handful of Grantaire's shirt. "I'll have you fired! The nerve! You idiot, you've ruined it!"

Grantaire pulled back, feeling more angry than afraid of the man spitting and frothing before him. This was similar to how he'd lost his last job, and it was taking quite a bit of restraint for him not give the chef exactly what he deserved.

"I didn't-"

"Silence! No garbage boy will come in and cook in my kitchen! The idea! I should have you fired on the spot!" Thénardier screamed.

Grantaire opened his mouth, ready to tell Thénardier exactly what he thought, when he saw someone move out of the corner of his eye.

It was Bahorel. With the soup. Moving towards the door.

"No, wait!" Grantaire shouted, prepared to run after him until Thénardier grabbed him once again.

"What are you doing, you idiot boy! I'll-" the man turned to see what Grantaire was looking at, eyes going wide as he watched the soup leave the kitchen. " _No!!!_ "

The nearby chefs looked up at his shout, watching as he dashed to the swinging doors. It was too late. A few of them glanced back at Grantaire, and he suddenly felt very willing to simply melt into the pristine tile floor.

It was an agonizing twenty seconds of Thénardier staring out the window on the door, watching the dining room. The kitchen seemed to have fallen strangely quiet. Thénardier turned around, murder in his eyes.

"You. _Out!_ You're gone! You're fi-"

Bahorel suddenly burst back through the doors, looking alarmed. "Sir. The customer- she wants to see the chef."

The rage disappeared from Thénardier's face, replaced by one of fear. "But- but he..." After a moment, he cleared his throat and followed Bahorel back through the doors.

The kitchen was definitely silent now. Behind him, Grantaire could hear some confused muttering from the group. Somebody pushed past him to get to the soup. Grantaire could care less. He'd screwed up again. Typical.

In less than a few minutes, Thénardier returned, face deadly but blank.

"What did the customer say?" someone asked.

"It was Sabine Bernard. The critic," Bahorel answered. 

Thénardier walked past Grantaire without a glance. Grantaire turned and saw him enter the sauce station where the fated soup was. Enjolras was standing there too, spoon in hand, face stern. "So what did she say?"

"That she liked it. Gave her compliments to the chef."

Thénardier grabbed the spoon from Enjolras and dipped it into the soup to taste it. He remained silent.

"Well?" Enjolras asked, sparing Grantaire a curious glance.

Thénardier turned around, glaring at Grantaire once again. "What is this?"

"I don't know, I just made it up."

"You made it up?" Thénardier looked ready to explode.

A little bit of Grantaire's anger returned, then. "Am I still fired?"

"You can't fire him," Enjolras scoffed, interjecting before Thénardier could answer.

"Excuse me?"

"I said you can't fire him. The critic liked it- she made a point of telling you so!" He crossed his arms. "If she writes a review and finds out you fired the chef responsible, what do you think would happen? This restaurant's reputation is hanging by a thread as it is, and firing someone who brings in good reviews is going to help nothing!"

Grantaire felt himself relax at Enjolras' words. He hadn't spoken more than three words to the chef in all his time working here, but now as he stood up for him, Grantaire could feel a little bit of hope returning. Maybe it wasn't over yet.

"I don't believe I asked your opinion, _monsieur_ Enjolras. One garbage boy is not going to save this restaurant," Thénardier hissed back.

Enjolras raised his chin, sudden contempt in his eyes as he glared at the man across from him. "Need I remind you of Monsieur Fauchelevant's stipulations when he agreed to keep you on as head chef in this restaurant? Or Fauchelevant's final say in the hiring and firing of employees?"

It was silent. Over ten people in an industrial, gourmet kitchen during the dinner rush, and there was not a single sound.

Thénardier's face twitched. Finally, he turned around to look at Grantaire. "Perhaps I have been a bit... _harsh_ towards our garbage boy," he said, voice greasy. "After all, only a _genius_ could have produced such a dish. Yes, I see it now. Monsieur Grantaire, I believe today is your lucky day. Seeing as how you displayed such raw talent, and monsieur Enjolras' deep interest in your culinary career, I propose _he_ take on the training and refining of your... _skills_."

Arms still crossed, Enjolras blushed, but did not say anything. His eyes were still fixed on Thénardier.

"Does anyone else wish to interject on the garbage boy's behalf?" Thénardier asked gently. Nobody answered. "Well, in that case... _get back to work!_ All of you!"

The kitchen immediately came back to life, stoves lighting up and orders being called out. Grantaire glanced up at Enjolras, hoping to find some sort of hope, but the blonde only frowned at him and returned to his station, cheeks still warm.

"And you." Thénardier rounded back on Grantaire, voice dangerously quiet. "You _will_ create this soup again. Happy accident or not, one more mistake and I will have you out of here before your pretty blonde savior can help you."

*

It was late by the time Grantaire got home, later than usual. He'd lingered on the walk, lost in thought on the darkened streets of Paris.

In his tiny apartment, he stood by the window, staring out at the city and wondering what was going to happen to him now. He'd never meant to call attention to himself like this. All he wanted was a quiet, steady job that he could actually hold onto for longer than a few months. And now that he had that, everything else had gone wrong. How fucking typical.

He looked over at the painting he'd hung above the narrow sofa that was his bed. When he'd still been studying art, he'd considered it one of his best works; a simple yet detailed study of his sister, poring over a book, her face bright and interested. It had taken him ages to recreate her exact expression. Looking at it now, though, with so many years between the painting and where he had ended up today, he could only feel disgust for himself.

He didn't sleep well that night, staying up, thinking about what was to happen next. A few feet away, the canvas lay in rips and shreds in the wastebasket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few definitions:  
> Esculerie: the person responsible for washing dishes and doing other kitchen chores  
> Chef de partie: a line cook who is in charge of a specific station or type of food prep. They are generally the only one to work that station.  
> Patissier: A chef de partie who is in charge of baked goods, pastries and desserts (the pastry chef).  
> Saucier: A chef de partie who is in charge of sauteing foods, as well as making sauces and gravies for other dishes (the saute chef).  
> Entremetier: A chef de partie who is in charge of vegetables, soups and starches (the vegetable chef).  
> Boucher: A chef de partie who is in charge of preparing raw meats, poultry and seafood (the butcher).  
> Sous chef: the second in command chef who monitors the kitchen and takes charge when the head chef is out  
> Grillardin: A chef de partie who is in charge of all grilled foods (the grill chef).  
> Commis chef: A junior member of the staff who works under an individual chef de partie to learn that station.
> 
> I hope you liked this so far. I always love comments, kudos and thoughts. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

If anyone at the restaurant was upset with the events of the night before, none of them showed it. Grantaire arrived early the next morning, uncertain of what would happen now that his job title had unexpectedly shifted to- what? He wasn't quite sure anymore.

The kitchen was still mostly empty, with most chefs not arriving until midday to begin preparations for the evening. Inside, Cosette was rummaging around in the freezer, taking stock of the supplies she had left at the end of the week. She turned and smiled at him kindly, calling out a quick "Good morning!" before ducking back into the freezer. Combeferre was near the dining room doors, frowning over some papers, though he too gave Grantaire a smile. Grantaire was beginning to feel unnerved.

"Grantaire," he said, looking back at his papers. "The chef wanted me to let you know that you'll be working with Enjolras until we open tonight. Basic instruction, learning the ins and outs of the kitchen, that kind of stuff. By Monday he wants you working on the soup."

"Great," Grantaire said stiffly. So he wasn't getting out of this one. "Thanks."

Combeferre looked back up at him over the rims of his glasses. "Sorry," he added, voice a bit softer. "The chef can get a bit... intense, sometimes. We all understand."

Grantaire nodded but didn't answer. After a moment, Combeferre looked back down at his work and stepped into Valjean's office.

It was only a few minutes later that Bossuet showed up, Joly and Jehan following behind him. They all looked to be in good spirits and greeted both Grantaire and Cosette brightly. Bossuet beckoned Grantaire towards the supply closets as the two chefs left to begin preparations.

"If you're going to be cooking, you'll need a real chef's hat. Everyone has to wear them, Thénardier insists. Says it's part of the restaurant's image to have everyone match." Bossuet pulled out a tall toque from the uniform closet, taller than the one Grantaire had been given on his first day. Bossuet glanced up, taking in the apprehensive expression on Grantaire's face. "Don't worry about the chef. Everyone's been screamed at by him at least five times while working here, if not more. It's really not a big deal."

"Why don't any of you do anything about him?" Grantaire couldn't help but ask.  


Bossuet shrugged. "He runs the kitchen well enough, I guess, even if he is a nightmare to work with. And Valjean specifically appointed him head chef when he took over. He must have had good reason." He frowned then. "But not everyone thinks so. Enjolras especially hates him, says he's a dictator in the kitchen and a disgrace to the world of haute cuisine. I don't think he'd mind seeing him gone, to be honest."

"And Enjolras? What's he like?"

"Enjolras is..." Bossuet floundered for the right word. "Passionate. And headstrong. But don't worry, he's fair. And he really knows his stuff. You'll do fine with him."

Grantaire nodded, not really feeling comforted. But he appreciated the effort. Bossuet, seeming to understand this, gave him a hearty pat on the back, wished him good luck, and left to begin disinfecting the counters and stove tops before the chefs arrived.

By the time Enjolras showed up, Courfeyrac had just whipped out the morning's newspaper and flipped it to the "fine dining" section and was excitedly reading to the others Sabine Bernard's review for the night before.

"A savory and warm yet subtle experience, one which has not been seen at Gusteau's - or for that matter, any competing establishment - for some years," he read. The other staff members' faces had mixes of surprise and joy, which made Grantaire's stomach turn. It had been a mistake. Or an accident. Or both. All this attention... "The chef responsible," Courfeyrac continued when he was urged on, "is no doubt of interest to those dedicated to fine cuisine going forward. Against all odds, Gusteau's has recaptured our attention."

The chefs chatted for a moment, some excited and others curious- what could this mean for the restaurant? A few tossed him a “congratulations”, which he responded to with what was hopefully a smile. He felt a little sick.

"Was that Bernard's review?" Enjolras asked as he passed by, the other chefs going back to their stations. He leaned over Courfeyrac's shoulder to see the entire article.

"Yes! Just look at this!"

Enjolras nodded thoughtfully but didn't say anything more about it. "Is Grantaire here?"

"Yeah- right here," Grantaire said baldly. Enjolras looked up with a cool gaze. Grantaire wondered why he'd ever thought this man might offer some solace, even if he did hate Thénardier just as much as Grantaire did. Courfeyrac nudged Enjolras' elbow, grinning up at him somewhat wickedly, and left, taking the newspaper with him.

"So," Enjolras began, voice reserved. "You're the one everybody's been fussing over."  


Grantaire frowned. "I- no. Look, whatever happened last night, it was an accident. I got lucky. I didn't know at all what I was doing, it was-"

"Stop," Enjolras interrupted, rolling his eyes and grabbing an apron from off the counter. "I hate false modesty. It's just another way to lie."

"I really don't-"

Enjolras glared at him, stopping Grantaire in his tracks. It was colder than it had been the night before, harsher. "If you want to play fortune's fool I'm not going to stop you,” he snapped. “But I have worked too long and too hard to get where I am now, and I am not going to risk it for some _plongeur_ who "got lucky". If you're serious about learning from me, then stay. If not, I suggest you track down Fauchelevant and get your old job back."

He turned on his heel and stalked off. In the early afternoon light, his blonde hair lit up like fire. Even left standing there, dumbstruck and a bit startled, Grantaire couldn't help but feel phantom brushstrokes as he envisioned painting Enjolras like that. Fiery and... bright.

Of course Grantaire didn't want to go up in the restaurant business. That was silly; he didn't know anything about cooking. And all he'd wanted was to have a quiet, easy job. Right? And he was sure if he went to Valjean, if he explained what had happened, everything would be put right.  


As if in a trance, Grantaire found himself going after Enjolras. The day's produce had just been delivered, and Enjolras was picking over peas and squash.

"I'm sorry," Grantaire muttered, still feeling slightly dazed. "I didn't mean to- I'm not trying to sound like a dick." Enjolras looked up at him sharply. "It's just- I never really learned to cook in any meaningful way. And I don't really know how I'm going to make it in a place like this." Enjolras didn't say anything. It occurred to Grantaire that maybe admitting to a gourmet chef that he'd never learned to cook wasn't the best way to apologize. "But I'm sure you can teach me," he tried, incredibly aware of how close to rambling-territory he was getting. "I mean, I'm not completely useless in a kitchen."

Enjolras was still staring at him, long enough for Grantaire to wonder if he should have just taken his advice and gone to Valjean. Then, for the first time, Enjolras gave Grantaire a small smile, as if amused. "I'll be the judge of that."

*****

"Knife skills, elementary kitchen knowledge. Show me what you know and slice this celery."

Grantaire took a deep breath. He was well aware of his abysmal knife skills, had been since he'd begun learning sculpting years ago. And that was probably nothing compared to in the kitchen. Regardless, he took the sharp knife Enjolras indicated and set to work, carefully slicing the celery.

Sure enough, he only got a few strokes in before Enjolras scoffed, batting his hands away. "I'm surprised you haven't lost a finger by now," he muttered, "if that's how you do it. Watch." He dragged the cutting board closer, taking the knife. "Keep your hand relaxed, you don't need to have a death grip on the handle. Let the blade do the cutting. And never leave your hands flat or open; you should always position yourself so it's impossible to get cut. Curl in your fingers on top and let the flat of the blade slide against your knuckles. Space it out to get even slices and save time."

He demonstrated then, the sharp sound of the knife blending in pleasantly to the sounds of the kitchen coming to life around them. Under Enjolras' rather delicate hands, the celery was quickly reduced to a nice pile of even chops. "When picking up the ingredients to move them with the knife," he continued, "slide the blade under them sharply, almost parallel to the board. That keeps the knife from warping or bending."

He set the knife down, looking up at Grantaire at last. "Got it?"

"I- think?"

"Try again on some carrots. If you're going to make it in this kitchen, you need to learn to move fast. I'll check on you in five minutes." Grantaire nodded. "And don't cut yourself. Nobody is going to the emergency room on my watch."

Grantaire looked back down at the board after he left, trying to remember the barrage of information he'd just been given. Soft grip, fingers in, move quickly...

Bossuet had been right. Enjolras certainly knew his stuff. Grantaire sighed and took the knife up again.

*

The evening quickly descended into its usual chaos once the restaurant opened for the evening. Saturday was usually the busiest night of the week, and it was also the day before the restaurant was restocked for the week. The kitchen was summarily busy and noisy, especially with Thénardier bellowing orders and instructions at everyone. Miraculously, he did not target Grantaire that evening, instead choosing to harass the wait staff at every chance until Musichetta looked like she might lose it. The rest of the kitchen kept their heads down, irritation obvious, but if Thénardier noticed he didn't stop.  


Éponine had taken the night off, apparently something had come up with her siblings, and so that left Enjolras, as head of the line cooks, to fill in for her. It was the first time Grantaire had really been able to watch him in action, and his absolute ease and surety in the kitchen made Grantaire simultaneously glad to be learning from him, but also anxious at the expectations his skill implied. Enjolras was good at managing time, communicating, directing his chefs, and yes, cooking. Next to him, Grantaire was set the task of preparing the sauces that would go on Enjolras' vegetables, which in turn would be paired with the filet and lamb being made across the kitchen.  


It had been an eventful day for Grantaire, all things considered. After the lesson on knife skills, Enjolras had set him tasks in sautéing ( _"Never add oil directly to a hot pan- drizzle it in on the sides so it has time to heat up."_ ), mixing up gravies ( _"Keep your hands and arms in to minimize cuts and burns- chefs move fast. Keep your sleeves clean and let your apron get messy."_ ) and using the ovens ( _"Call out before you open an oven, it's dangerous if someone isn't expecting it."_ ). For a beginner's course, it had been fairly helpful and broad, and by that night Grantaire was feeling better about his own skills, if only slightly, and was very grateful he was only expected to do one task for the entire shift, and one of the easiest. The night's stress seemed to be getting to Enjolras towards the end of the dinner rush, however, as he grabbed Grantaire by the wrist at one point and hissed that he must never, _ever_ use a metal utensil on a nonstick pan, and later as he rescued a horribly separated sauce Grantaire had let get too hot, berating him for not keeping a close enough eye on the consistency and look.

By the time the last table had been vacated and the restaurant was officially closed, Grantaire felt exhausted, and knew he probably looked it. He wondered for a moment if he should stay and help Bossuet, who wasn't quite done with cleaning the kitchen for the evening, but the bald man waved away his offers with a friendly grin. "Go home, it looks like you've had a long day! I can take care of it."

So Grantaire deposited his toque and apron into the dirty linens cart along with the other chefs, as they chatted and left the restaurant.

At the door, Enjolras caught Grantaire's sleeve. "You did well today," he said casually, holding the door open for him. "You'll be on your own on Monday with the soup, but I'm still responsible for you."

Grantaire nodded. "Thanks," he said, stepping into the alley. "For everything, really. Today was... yeah. Thanks. Without you I probably would have been eaten alive."

Enjolras raised an eyebrow, following him into the dark alley. "You think so?" he asked.

"I mean- I guess."

"I think you're still underselling yourself. All I showed you today was basic technique. The recipes, the flavors, that was all you." He pulled on the red coat he’d had slung over his arm, fluffing his blonde hair out from under the collar.

Grantaire stood there for a moment, inspired again by the figure that Enjolras cut in his red coat, backlit against the light from the kitchens while standing in the dark, cobbled alley. "Maybe."

Enjolras didn't press any more, simply nodded and glanced over his shoulder. "I'll see you Monday, then. Goodnight, Grantaire."

"Goodnight.

Grantaire watched his retreating figure until he rounded the corner at the end of the alley. It was only then that Grantaire realized how the night air had gone from cool to cold. He slipped into his own jacket, a faded and ancient green thing that had practically molded to his body by now, before turning and heading out the opposite way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one definition this time:  
> Plongeur: Similar to the escuelerie, the person who does kitchen chores and takes out the trash.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a day late because I was up til ass-o'clock last night, so to compensate it's the longest one so far. Enjoy!
> 
> (Also there are many mentions of veal in this chapter just in case that bothers you. Source and eat your food responsibly kids.)

Monday began much smoother than the previous one had. Upon Grantaire's arrival to the restaurant, Cosette, Marius, Montparnasse, and Musichetta were already there. Towards the front of the kitchen, near the swinging doors, Enjolras was set up and working on preparing a mise for the evening. Courfeyrac was perched on the counter next to him, talking, and on Enjolras' other side Combeferre was leaning against the counter, smiling. Enjolras alone looked irritated, intensely focusing on mincing what looked like carrots.

"Good morning!" Cosette called out brightly at the sound of the back door opening.

"Morning," Grantaire returned, smiling at her and grabbing an apron and toque from the closet. In the back of the kitchen, Enjolras' head snapped up and he swatted Courfeyrac in the arm, muttering something to him. Courfeyrac slid off the counter, still grinning, and called out a casual "hello" to Grantaire before strolling into the dining room.

"And just act normally," Combeferre was saying when Grantaire arrived at Enjolras' counter, tying on his apron. Enjolras didn't say anything, still mincing the same carrots to minuscule cubes. Combeferre let out a little sigh and smiled tightly at Grantaire before moving to talk to Musichetta about the dining room setup for the night.

"Good morning," Grantaire said casually, trying to gauge Enjolras' mood without being too obvious.

"Good morning," he responded politely, not taking his eyes off the cutting board. He finally scraped the carrots into a bowl, moving on to an onion. "You'll be working at the _saucier's_ station today, but you have to prepare your mise before you start. Combeferre doesn't let anyone start cooking until they've done it, it just leads to disaster later on. You can borrow one of my knives."

"Right." Grantaire pulled one out of Enjolras’ knife roll on the counter.

Enjolras glanced up. "Not that one, that's a boning knife. Use the paring or utility blade."

At Grantaire's perplexed look, Enjolras rolled his eyes and pulled one of the smaller knives out, flipping it around one-handed and holding the handle out towards Grantaire.

"Thanks." He took it, and slid the basket of vegetables closer. "So," he said casually, fumbling with some leeks, which he was almost certain he'd thrown into the soup that night. "Do you know them well? Courfeyrac and Combeferre?"

"Everyone in the kitchen knows each other somehow," Enjolras answered. "Cosette and Marius are married, Montparnasse and Bahorel used to have a- *thing*. Montparnasse and Jehan are friends. Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet are all dating. I think Éponine and Feuilly are boxing partners."

"And you three?"

Enjolras bit his lip. "I've known Combeferre since I was little. He and Courfeyrac and I share an apartment."

"That's- convenient," Grantaire said, trying to remember what Enjolras had taught him the other day. Soft grip, fingers curled, even cuts. "That you all know each other, I mean. Bossuet told me that Thénardier and Valjean go way back."

Enjolras frowned. "Yes." He focused back on his dicing.

Grantaire paused for a moment. "He also said that you don't like Thénardier very much."

"Did he now?"  


"Yeah." A pause. "Was he wrong?"

Enjolras rolled his eyes again, reaching for another bowl. "Of course not. I thought I was quite obvious the night I stopped him from firing you." He swept a pile of green onions into the bowl, letting the knife clang against its rim. "I detest men like Thénardier. He expects total authority in the kitchen without earning it, he mistreats his subordinates, and he abuses the trust that others put into him. Who could like someone like that? Especially if they had to spend every day with them."  


Grantaire nodded, sensing this was a sore subject. "You're the political type, aren't you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Y'know. You were in the debate club at school, probably have really strong opinions on power and leadership?"

"There's nothing wrong with having strong opinions on those. It's important to care about who's in power and whether they should be."  


"Does it really matter? I mean, what can we do to change whether it's fair or not?"  


Enjolras glared at him at that, eyes full of a fire and fury Grantaire had not seen on him before. "Of course it _matters_ ," he snapped.

Grantaire was not known for his ability to leave well enough alone. "Why is that?"

Enjolras dropped his knife on the board, cheeks tinted pink. "It _matters_ because if I didn't care about Thénardier running around with unchecked power, _you_ would probably be out of a job!"

He grabbed his tray and stormed off in a huff. Across the kitchen, Marius gave Grantaire a strange look, and he could've sworn he saw Montparnasse roll his eyes.

*  


The day progressed slowly after that. Grantaire seemed to be getting nowhere with the goddamn soup. He tried his best to recreate it from memory, but he didn't know what had been in the soup before he'd gotten involved, and he wasn't sure if Enjolras was still angry enough to help him. Judging by the fact that they'd only spoken once since, when Enjolras pointed out that his station should be clear of dirty dishes at all times, Grantaire was inclined to say he was still angry.

They were two hours away from opening by the time Thénardier arrived, in as bad a mood as ever. He instantly made a beeline for the sauce station, where Grantaire was desperately trying to recreate his accidental success.  


"Well, monsieur Grantaire, I see you have been making a noble effort to repeat your previous stroke of genius," he said waspishly, peering into the simmering pot. "But it appears you have thus far been unsuccessful, hm?" He gave him a nasty smile. "No worries. I believe we still have all of two hours before diners arrive. I do not doubt you can pull off a miracle by then."

He left after that, mercifully, Grantaire glaring at him as he left. He took a deep breath and turned back to the pot, which did not at all resemble the rich soup from before. Grantaire had just resolved to start adding whatever ingredients he could when suddenly Enjolras was there, elbowing him out of the way to take a look.

"What have you done so far?" he asked quietly, under the hum of the kitchen.

"I- what?"

"What have you added to this so far?" Enjolras repeated, glancing up quickly to make sure Thénardier wasn't watching before turning to look at Grantaire.

"The white wine, tomatoes, garlic, potatoes and seasoning. It's just not thickening right, and I don't know what was in the soup before I messed with it," he sighed, crossing his arms.

Enjolras tutted, looking over the ingredients Grantaire had prepared earlier. "This recipe has scallions in it too. And shallots." He took a spoon from the hanging rack to take a quick taste. "And it needs sugar."

"Scallions- wait, sugar?  It's not supposed to be sweet."  


"Sugar won't make it sweet," Enjolras sighed, sounding pained. "It cuts the acidity of the tomatoes. About a tablespoon should do it."

"That's it?"

"Bring it to a boil and then let it simmer," he said thoughtfully. "That should reduce the wine and help it thicken. Can you remember what you did from there?"  


"Yes. Thank you," he muttered, looking down.

Enjolras hummed softly and then disappeared, as quickly as he had come.

*  


With Enjolras' hasty instructions and Grantaire's fairly reliable memory from three nights before, it was another hour before he had prepared something that looked shockingly similar to the way it was supposed to.

Thénardier apparently thought so too, as the mean grin on his face faded when he swung by the sauce station again. Grantaire held his breath as the man took down another spoon to taste it.

"Congratulations," Thénardier said slowly, still eyeing the soup. "You were able to repeat your accidental success." He turned around, glaring at him. "You will, however, need to know more than soup if you are going to survive in this kitchen. Enjolras will attend to that.”

It seemed to be a miracle after all. Against all odds, he had done it. Well, not just him. Grantaire searched the kitchen for the blonde, finding him plating the first few dishes of the night next to Joly.

He sighed. Right.

*

By the next day, Enjolras seemed ready to ignore their argument. In the morning, he greeted him pleasantly, congratulating him on his success. With a rare but real smile and the late morning light shining through his hair, he looked like a goddamn ray of sunshine. Grantaire couldn't help but smile back.  


"Thank you. But I owe you big time. Without your help I would never have-"

"No," Enjolras warned. "You know I hate that. Take credit for yourself for once.

"Really? You won't even let me thank you?"

Enjolras looked at him thoughtfully. "Why don't you help me open these pea pods?" He gestured to a large bowl of them he was currently shelling.

Grantaire paused, steeled himself, and nodded. It was time to begin his cooking career with Enjolras.

*

"Always follow the recipe." It was a rule Enjolras seemed to live by. He showed Grantaire the mixture of spring vegetables he was sautéing. "Gusteau's code of flavor always included something unexpected. Our job is to follow the recipe. Never improvise when things go wrong."

*

"Don't stand so far away," he chided, watching Grantaire try to add wine to a red-hot pan of mushrooms and onions. He fearlessly took the pan and gave it a good shake, pouring in the wine and leaning back when it briefly ignited. "If you're afraid of a hot pan, you're only more likely to hurt yourself or someone else. Stand close, do what you need to do, and keep out of the way when it gets hot. It'll get much easier once you do." He handed the pan back with a confident nod.

*

"Spices should be stored in a cool and dark place, away from humidity." Enjolras and Grantaire were kneading dough with Jehan, Grantaire listening diligently as the pastry chef spoke. "If it's too warm or damp the spices lose their flavor and the dish comes out flat." Jehan wrinkled his nose, sprinkling flour across his table and arming himself with a rolling pin.

"Spice can be the most important part of a dish," Enjolras added, a bit of flour dusted on his nose. He corrected Grantaire's kneading technique, hands barely brushing his as he showed him how to fold and push the dough.

*

"The only way to get the best fresh produce is to have the first pick of the day," Montparnasse said quietly. He always spoke softly, yet had a way of commanding attention when he did so. "And there are only two ways to get first pick: grow it yourself, or bribe a grower." He looked up from the lemons, oranges and limes they were zesting, giving Grantaire a wicked grin. " _Et voilà._ The best restaurant gets first pick."

Beside him, Enjolras pursed his lips, but said nothing. Grantaire returned Montparnasse's grin.

*

"Always measure," Enjolras chided, snatching a carton of broth from Grantaire before he could dump it into a pan. "Cooking is chemistry. Too much or too little could ruin a dish."

*

"Ah! Never leave a pan handle pointing towards you!" Joly gasped, quickly rectifying Grantaire's mistake. Enjolras whipped around from the stove across from him, giving Grantaire an exasperated look. "Someone could walk by and knock it off the stove. Things move fast in kitchens like these, and space gets tight. Keep the handle pointed towards the back of the stove."

*

"Cold water is best for burns," Enjolras sighed, pulling Grantaire over to a sink. "Leave it under the water for a few minutes to draw out the heat." He took Grantaire's hand, surprisingly gentle, and pulled his wrist under the tap so it could hit the bright red burn there. "And congratulations on your first burn in this kitchen," he said, smiling slightly. "May it be the first of many."

*

"Chef- my table is asking what's new in the kitchen."

Grantaire had been working under Enjolras for two weeks before the night Feuilly rushed into the kitchen, grabbing Combeferre by the arm and asking that fateful question.

"They want to know what's new?" Thénardier asked sharply, butting in.

"Yes. Table nine wants to know what's new on the menu."

"What did you tell them?"

"I told them I would ask!"

"But there isn't anything new," Éponine said.

"We can't tell them that," Combeferre answered, frowning.  


"They said they liked the new soup- Grantaire's recipe."

Thénardier looked at Feuilly sharply. "They are asking for food from _him_?"  


"A lot of customers like the soup," Cosette interjected. "That's all we're saying, chef."  


"Were we saying that?" Marius muttered.  


Thénardier crossed his arms, the gears in his head practically visible as he thought. "Very well. If it is Grantaire's food they want, tell them _chef_ Grantaire is preparing something especially for them," he sneered. Grantaire felt his stomach drop. "Something definitely... _off-menu_."

Feuilly nodded shortly and turned back to the dining room, looking worried. Thénardier rounded on Grantaire, smiling unpleasantly. "Here is your chance, _monsieur_ , to prove yourself in our kitchen. There is an old recipe, a forgotten favorite of Gusteau's: _sweetbread à la Gusteau_. You will prepare it for the customers. Monsieur Enjolras will assist you."

Combeferre cleared his throat. "But- chef, are you sure? Gusteau himself said that recipe-"

"It is just the sort of challenge a budding chef needs!" Thénardier said. "I do not doubt he can handle it."

A few minutes later found Enjolras and Grantaire huddled in the corner over an old, tattered card with the recipe Thénardier had mentioned.

  
"Sweetbread à la Gusteau," Enjolras muttered. "Sweetbread cooked in a seaweed salt crust and served with cuttlefish tentacles, dog rose purée, geoduck egg, dried white fungus, and an anchovy licorice sauce."

There was a moment of stunned silence between them. Enjolras didn't take his eyes off the card. "I... don't know this recipe. Are they sure it's Gusteau?" He flipped the card around, but there was nothing written on the back. "Well. We should get started. Cosette!" he shouted across the kitchen, heading for the pantry. "We have some veal stomach soaking, yes?"

"Yes! Veal stomach, I'll get it for you!"  


Grantaire remained where he was. That recipe sounded like every disgusting thing in the pantry thrown together in one dish. How on earth was he supposed to...?

After they had assembled all the ingredients, Enjolras set about making the sweetbread. "You. Start on that sauce, everything is on the card," he snapped, setting the veal to cook in a pan.

Grantaire looked at the recipe. Anchovies still in their oil, puréed with the licorice flavoring, with garlic, onions, butter and merlot. Grantaire had half a mind to insist Enjolras help him with a different sauce, at least, if it had to be a veal dish, but he knew Enjolras would never approve of going off-recipe. Even if said recipe contained fish and licorice.

What did he have to lose? In the saucepan he followed the recipe, puréeing the anchovies first, adding the licorice, melting the butter to cook the onions and garlic, adding the purée, stirring, turning up the heat, stirring again, adding in the wine.

The sauce was dark from the wine and licorice. Feeling brave, he tasted it.

Oh god. It had somehow managed to taste worse than he had anticipated, and it probably wasn't even because of him. Every flavor simply worked against the others, overpowering and bitter, leaving a taste that stuck to every corner of his mouth. There was no way he could serve this. Not with his and Enjolras' names attached to it.

He glanced up at Enjolras. The blonde was occupied with the veal and cuttlefish, his hair slightly fluffy from the heat of the stove.

Grantaire felt reckless, but he knew it couldn't possibly get worse from here. He moved the licorice sauce to a cool back burner to sit and grabbed a new saucepan. Time to make something up.

In went a quick drizzle of oil, heat turned up high. Quickly sauté some garlic and shallots until cooked, add in some nice port wine stored nearby with a pinch of sugar. It wasn't quite runny enough for a sauce... chicken stock. It would add liquid and a savory flavor to complement the wine. In it went. Grantaire whisked the sauce, breathless as it thickened and came together. A quick taste confirmed it was not disgusting. In fact, it actually tasted- good?

"Where is the sauce?" Enjolras asked, looking slightly frazzled. "The veal-" he caught sight of the port wine sauce. "What is that? We're supposed to be preparing the sweetbread recipe!"  


"This is the recipe!" Grantaire lied, turning down the heat.

"The recipe doesn't call for port or stock!" Enjolras had a slightly panicked look in his eye. "What else are you- _you are improvising?_ " he hissed.

"Just trust me!" Grantaire grabbed three plates and began plating the veal.

"This is no time to experiment! The customers are waiting!"

"It's going to work!"  


"I thought we were together on this!"

"We are! The licorice sauce is disgusting! I'm not letting either of us serve it!"

Enjolras whirled around, finding the abandoned licorice sauce. Grantaire grabbed the plates and carried them to the front for the waiters.  


"Wait, it still needs the sauce," he said to Feuilly before running back to his station and grabbing the simmering port sauce.

At the front of the kitchen, Enjolras grabbed Grantaire's free wrist. "Don't. You. _Dare,_ " he warned, eyes glinting like steel. He went to pour the licorice sauce-

Before he could, Grantaire flooded the veal with the port sauce, each plate getting a splash of deep red. Enjolras' cursing in Grantaire's ear sounded far away. A second later, Feuilly had grabbed the three plates, stacked them on a tray, and whisked them into the dining room.

It took Grantaire a few minutes of catching his breath before he turned to look at Enjolras. The blonde was standing there, mouth open in shock, staring at the spot where Feuilly had just disappeared. He looked strangely lost.

It didn't last long. "What was that? What did you put in it?" He turned to face Grantaire, eyes wide.

"It was- wine, broth, garlic and shallots. I just thought they would go well together," Grantaire answered, prepared to defend his decision.

Enjolras stared at him, an incomprehensible look on his face. The fire in his eyes from their first day together had returned, but it seemed- warmer. Enjolras opened his mouth to respond, when suddenly the swinging doors flew open, startling half the kitchen.

"They love it!" Feuilly cried out, smiling widely at Grantaire. "Bahorel and I have seven more orders!"

Enjolras was still staring at Grantaire, eyes wide. His cheeks turned slightly red, but the sound of Thénardier's harsh voice caused his and everyone else's head to swivel away from Grantaire.

"They _what?!_ " Thénardier growled, shoving Marius aside to get to Feuilly.

"My table- they loved the sweetbread! Other diners are already asking about it! And about Grantaire!"

Thénardier stood there, stunned. Combeferre stepped forward. "Then let's get to work! Grantaire, Enjolras, you can handle the special orders for tonight."  


In unison, they resonded. " _Oui_ , chef."

*

  
The evening passed in a blur. Enjolras didn't say much else to Grantaire, save for a few questions and showing him how to cook the veal. He seemed to be deep in thought, and under the deluge of special orders for the evening, Grantaire didn't find an opportunity to casually ask him what was on his mind.

By the end of the shift, he could hear Combeferre discussing with Thénardier the possibility of making the sweetbread the kitchen's specialty dish, to see how long its popularity would last. Grantaire felt in high spirits, despite Thénardier's grumbling response, and by the time he left the kitchen and entered the dark alley outside, he was feeling better about his job than he ever had before. It was becoming- fun.

"Grantaire!"

He turned around, almost at the end of the alley already. Enjolras had called out to him, and ran up to meet him before he was gone. The blonde looked slightly breathless, wrapped up in that red coat again.

"Sorry, I wanted to catch you before you left," he said, tucking his hands into his pockets. The night air was cold again, and it looked as though it might rain.

"Don't worry about it," Grantaire answered. "I don't have anywhere to be."  


"Good. It's just- I wanted to say- good work tonight." Enjolras looked flustered. "Really. It was- you were absolutely right about that recipe. I'm glad you changed it." He looked down at his shoes. "And I'm proud of you taking charge in the kitchen. You've learned a lot."

Grantaire felt his ears get hot. "I- thank you?"  


Enjolras worried at his lip. "It means a lot to me. That you're trying and learning. And I'm glad that we were able to prove Thénardier wrong. Together."  


Grantaire smiled a little. "Yeah. Me too. And just so you know, I think you're a pretty good teacher."

The sound of the traffic on the street filled in the warm silence between them. "Are you walking home?"  


"Yeah. I live across the city."  


A pause. "I can give you a ride, if you want."

"Really?"

"Usually I carpool with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, but they're out on a date. They can take the metro back to the flat. It's no problem."

Grantaire nodded. "Okay."

*

Enjolras' car was small but cozy. On the radio, a political talk show murmured lowly. Grantaire smiled at it, and gave Enjolras his address.

"That's far. You walk here every day?" he asked, pulling into the street.

"It's good to get the exercise. I used to box and wrestle, but ever since I stopped I have to find new ways to get out," he answered.

"Really?" Enjolras asked curiously. Grantaire hummed in confirmation. "Why don't you anymore?"

Grantaire sighed. "Uh, mostly a handful of failed jobs, a few too many times moving house, and some other complications. Kinda ran out of the time and money."

"Oh." Enjolras' grip on the wheel tightened. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine. You didn’t know."   


They stopped at a red light, next to a kitchen supply store. "So how did you get into cooking?" Grantaire asked.

Enjolras' face softened a little. "I've always loved to cook. When I was young, the maid taught me a lot of things. I went to classes, did my own experimentation. I got older and had to decide between cooking or politics. But Combeferre was going to culinary school, and I knew I'd regret it if I didn't try."

"Wow, a maid growing up?" Grantaire asked teasingly. "How nice."

"My father is a retired politician and my mother comes from money," Enjolras said shortly. He paused before adding, "I don't see them anymore."

Grantaire felt a bit awkward. "I get it. Parental issues; been there, done that."

"What did you do before you came to work at the restaurant?" Enjolras changed the subject.

"Uh, I worked at an art shop. A little tourist place, a lot of small commissions. It was nice, while it lasted."  


"You're an artist?" Enjolras smiled at him, turning onto a side street.  


"Used to be. Painting and sculpting."

"Wow. That's incredible."  


"Hm, you'd think so. Four years at art school. Didn't exactly work out."

The blonde tipped his head back against the headrest, waiting for the car ahead of them to move. "You don’t give yourself any credit. I might have guessed you were an artist before- you have that innate talent. Drive to learn. We value that in our kitchen."

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him. "We?"

"We. You are one of us now, _oui?_ " A smile was playing at his lips.

Grantaire huffed out a laugh. " _Oui._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to actual cooking in a restaurant AU, I thought we'd never get here. Some new words:
> 
> Toque: a "white hat". The tall, pleated hat head chefs wear.  
> Mise: "Mise en place", literally "everything in its place". The practice of dicing and preparing everything needed to cook before you begin cooking.  
> Et voila: "there it is/there you go". An exclamation.  
> Oui: "Yes". Used here as a play on words between it and the phonetically similar "we".
> 
> The anchovy-licorice sauce is completely made up, using elements from an [anchovy sauce](http://www.geniuskitchen.com/recipe/anchovy-sauce-222332) from the website Genius Kitchen and a [licorice sauce](https://www.foodandwine.com/recipes/roasted-duck-with-licorice-merlot-sauce) from a Food&Wine recipe. The [port sauce](http://emerils.com/127544/port-wine-sauce) is an Emeril Lagasse recipe I found on Google. The actual sweetbread recipe is taken directly from the movie.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

As he walked to work the next morning, Grantaire found himself in high spirits. His job was going well- even looking up for once. He was learning to cook for the first time, and absolutely loving it while also being good at it. Last weekend he'd bought a new set of canvasses with his bigger than usual paycheck, and quickly filled them with visions of fire, flashes of red, and bright blue eyes. It was the fastest he'd ever painted anything he felt proud of. He was ahead on rent, and even looking to upgrade from his shitty apartment to a marginally less shitty apartment. Two rooms, at least. And he was training under an... an...

An Enjolras. Enjolras, the intelligent and serious _chef de partie_ , who was passionate and smart and well spoken and- pretty. Very pretty. And amazingly enough, Enjolras didn't seem to hate his guts. The opposite, in fact. The night before, he'd parked outside Grantaire's building, walked him to the front door as they continued a spirited discussion on the recent local elections. Enjolras' eyes had been shining as he spoke so intensely, almost as passionate about political theory as he was when showing Grantaire the proper way to butcher a chicken.

At the front door of the complex, there had been a brief, awkward moment as they said goodbye. Enjolras had given him a real smile, and softly wished him goodnight before heading back to his car. And of course, Grantaire spent the night mentally patting himself on the back for even getting that far with him. Dates - or whatever last night had been - did not usually go that well for Grantaire, either.

So he was feeling relatively good that morning. It had rained briefly earlier, while it was still dark out, and now in the gray morning the cobblestone streets of Paris were littered with puddles.

Grantaire opened the back door to the restaurant, fully prepared to find Enjolras and continue their discussion from the night before. However, as soon as he walked in, he saw Valjean standing there by the butcher's station, talking with Cosette and Marius. At the sound of the door opening, he turned, smiling brightly.

"Grantaire! Young man, I have been wanting to come down and have a word with you for a while," he said pleasantly, excusing himself from his daughter and son-in-law. "Come. Let's talk in my office."

Feeling slight trepidation, Grantaire followed him to his office. They passed Courfeyrac on the way there, who grinned at Grantaire and winked. Before he could begin to wonder what that meant, Valjean had steered him into the office where Thénardier spent a majority of his mornings. Thankfully, the wiry chef wasn't in there.

"Please, sit. Can I get you anything?"

"No, thank you, sir," Grantaire answered, taking a seat and feeling strong sense of déjà vu from two months before. "What did you want to discuss with me?"

"Well, Grantaire, I wanted to congratulate you on your success in this kitchen, of course," the man said, smiling and settling into his own chair. "I've been hearing marvelous things about Gusteau's in the papers - and marvelous things about you."

"Oh, really?" Grantaire felt his thundering heartbeat slow. "That's wonderful."

"It certainly is! I've always been very firm in my belief that anyone can cook. That used to be Gusteau's motto, you know." Valjean nodded to himself. "Yes, I am very glad you have found your footing in our kitchen, and I look forward to more great things from you. There is, however, the matter of your job," he said.

Grantaire's heart sped up again. "Yes?"

"Well, as you know, I hired you on as a dishwasher. Obviously, that title is no longer appropriate for the work you are doing now." Grantaire shrunk down in his seat, bracing himself. "So I have decided to promote you. In name only, obviously, as you are already doing the work of a chef."

Grantaire sat back up, confused. "Sorry, what?"

" _Commis chef_ , I believe, will be the most appropriate title. Of course, you may continue to learn under monsieur Enjolras. He's a good boy, very dedicated and intelligent. Together, it seems as though you two are already taking the kitchen by storm." Valjean smiled here. "And of course, we will also compensate you for your new job with a pay increase, as is due to a chef in training."

Grantaire could only sit there, shocked.

"Any questions?"

It was a few moments before Grantaire could gather his thoughts. "I- thank you, sir. Very much. But- what about Bossuet? I've been helping him wherever I can but if I become a full-time chef-"

"No need to worry about monsieur Bossuet," Valjean said. "I have hired on a new dishwasher, mademoiselle Éponine's younger brother. He is young, but I do not doubt he will become well at home in our kitchen, as you have."

Valjean rose from his chair, extending a hand out. Grantaire stood too, taking it and shaking it firmly. "I am sure you will learn to do marvelous things here," the old man said. "I look forward to whatever you accomplish next, and congratulate you on your recent successes.”

Grantaire nodded, smiling. This morning just kept getting better.

*

In Valjean's presence, Thénardier was firm, serious, an intelligent man. He spoke well, held himself better, treated his chefs gentler. Grantaire was kicking himself, wondering why he hadn't mentioned the chef's behavior to Valjean in his office.

"Wouldn't do you any good," Enjolras answered when Grantaire voiced this aloud. "He seems to think highly of him. Says he was a competent chef in Gusteau's day, and that everyone deserves a second chance."

Grantaire rolled his eyes. "How can a man as nice as Valjean believe in someone like Thénardier?"

Enjolras shrugged, but for once he didn't seem particularly bothered by it. "Will you pass me the white truffle oil?" he asked, shaking a pan of mushrooms.  


Grantaire handed him the clear glass bottle off the shelf. Enjolras smiled as he took it, though he smiled in the way that people smile when they are trying not to smile.

"You're in a good mood this morning," Grantaire commented, measuring out some white wine into a glass cup.

"Maybe I am."

"Why?"

"Can't I just be in a good mood?" Enjolras asked innocently, adding a splash of the oil to the pan.

"I guess," Grantaire chuckled. "Although talking about Thénardier usually sends you into a rage."

The blonde sighed. "I'm tired of talking about that miserable excuse of a chef. Let's talk about something else."

Grantaire immediately launched back into their discussion from the night before. Debating and cooking, they spent their entire morning of preparations together, getting ready for the evening.

*

Combeferre's predictions proved right. Grantaire's specialty, the sweetbread à la Gusteau, was still a great success. Halfway through the evening, Cosette remarked that she hoped they didn't run out of veal before the week was over, and that they would have to place larger orders of it next week. 

The dinner rush was hurried and busy, with not only tourists crowding the dining room, but also Parisians and food critics too. Positive and glowing reviews showed up in the news almost every morning since Grantaire was able to recreate the soup, and with the sweetbread's debut, that evening had been particularly rushed.

"Grantaire! Come get a drink with us," Courfeyrac called out cheerfully when the night was through and everyone was packing up.  


"Who?" Grantaire asked as he untied his apron.

"Me, Combeferre, Feuilly, Bahorel, Jehan, Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta, and Éponine," he answered, grinning. "Oh, and Enjolras."

Grantaire dropped his apron into the dirty linens bin. "Sure. Where are we going?"

"The Corinthe, it's only a few minutes from here," Musichetta answered, squeezing past him to drop her own apron on top of his. "We'll walk there together."  


Grantaire was all too familiar with the Corinthe. There probably wasn't a bar in Paris he hadn't at least heard of.

"Let's go!" 

With the lights out in the kitchen, everything cleaned and put away and the doors locked, the group made their way across the street, heading for the old bar. For a moment, Grantaire caught Enjolras' eye as everyone chatted around them. He considered moving up to walk next to him, but Bossuet grabbed him by the elbow, pulling him into a conversation with Joly and Musichetta, and Enjolras looked away.

*

The Corinthe was as dark and crowded as Grantaire remembered it being. The group was squeezed into a corner near the bar, heavy music pumping through the building, not quite loud enough to drown out the sounds of the crowd.  


Grantaire was squeezed into a booth with Enjolras, Éponine, Jehan and Courfeyrac, the latter three shouting at each other over the beat of the music about clothes. Or sports. Grantaire couldn't really tell which.  


"Don't you drink?" Enjolras asked, practically talking directly into Grantaire's ear to be heard. He gestured towards the untouched bottle in front of him.

"Don't you?" Grantaire shot back.  


Enjolras shrugged, glancing at his own drink, only a few sips gone. "Not this," he answered.

Grantaire ran a hand through his hair. "I used to drink. And then I would drink too much. So I stopped. I've been sober almost three years," he replied, the seriousness of his words slightly undermined by the fact that he had to shout so the other man could hear him.

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. "Impressive. Why did you agree to come to a bar with us, then?"

"I don't know. Because I like you. All of you," he clarified quickly. "You're all nice, and seem to be good people, and I probably need a lot more social interactions than I currently have."

Enjolras nodded. "You know, I really-"

"Hey, princess!" Éponine shouted across the table. "What's wrong with the drink?"

Enjolras only rolled his eyes in response, and Éponine and Jehan, laughing, grabbed him by the arm and hauled him up to the bar, presumably to find at least one thing he would drink.

Courfeyrac scooted closer to Grantaire. "So, what do you think of life in the kitchen?"

"It's fine. Weird, sometimes. And stressful. But fine."

He nodded. "Yeah, it can seem that way in the beginning. But don't worry, the longer you stay the easier it'll get. Enjolras says you're a natural."

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

A wicked look came over Courfeyrac's friendly face. "Oh, yeah. He never shuts up about you at home. Says you're an _amazing_ chef, and _such_ a fast learner, and that he's _never_ met _anyone_ so gifted before." He snickered, taking a sip from his brightly-colored drink.

Grantaire's insides fluttered. "Did he? He never says anything like that to me."

"Yeah, well, he's kind of a proud dick. But he's also really nice. He just doesn't know how to make a move. In all the years I've known him, he's been on, like, zero dates." Courfeyrac leaned in closer. "But don't worry, he likes you a lot more than he lets on."

Grantaire was speechless. He genuinely had no idea what he was meant to say next. Luckily, he didn't have to think of anything, as Combeferre arrived at the table, Enjolras only a few steps behind him.

"What are you smiling about?" Enjolras asked suspiciously, voice loud over the music.

"Nothing," Courfeyrac called back.

"We have to go, Bahorel looks like he's about to punch that idiot back at the bar," Combeferre shouted, holding out a hand to his boyfriend. "And we have work in the morning."

In the end, only Grantaire, Jehan, Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras ended up leaving the bar, the rest of the group staying behind to keep an eye on the situation, promising to be on time to work the next morning.

On the walk back to the restaurant, along the well-lit streets of Paris, Grantaire fell into step next to Enjolras.

"So I guess I'm going to be your trainee officially from now on," he said, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets.

Enjolras nodded. "Looks like it. But I'm glad to keep working with you. I think we make a good team."

Grantaire took a deep breath. "Me too. Honestly, when this started, I wasn't sure if I wanted to stay or quit. I never really imagined myself in any culinary setting. But you roped me in- I can't believe how much I've fallen in love with it all."

The look on Enjolras' face was as bright as a thousand suns. "Really?" he asked, smiling so brightly Grantaire could see a hint of some dimples.

"Yeah. I mean- I've never met a chef as passionate and talented as you. And just watching you work- inspires me? I guess?" Horrifyingly, Grantaire felt himself blush.

Enjolras seemed speechless. "Nobody's ever given me such a high compliment." There was a strange look in his eyes, warm and awed.

"You can't have met many decent people, then," Grantaire heard himself say. "You could inspire anyone, the way you talk."

And though it only lasted a moment, the joy and warmth on Enjolras' beautiful face at that moment would remain on Grantaire's mind for the rest of the night.

*

Across the city, on a dark street among abandoned buildings, a tall, wiry man was meeting a group of accomplices.

The others were crafty, cunning, silent, sly.

Just like their leader.

"I have a job for you," the man said in his harsh voice. "A problem I need taken care of."

In the dark on the abandoned street, they planned.

*

The next morning was the most tense and serious Grantaire had ever experienced while working at Gusteau's. He was sitting on a counter, hands in a death grip on the edge of it. Enjolras stood beside him, arms crossed, all the light from the night before washed off his face, replaced by a cold, serious mask. The other chefs and employees were huddled in the kitchen wearing similar expressions. Courfeyrac alone spoke, in the middle of the group, voice solemn.

"Amid the tourist traps and cheap bistros this historic city has fallen victim to over the years, one has stood out as particularly responsible for it all: the formerly revered Gusteau's," Courfeyrac read from the newspaper in his hands. "Though I, like many other critics, had written off Gusteau's as irrelevant years ago, one would have to be both blind and deaf to have missed all the chatter and interest the so-called "gourmet" restaurant has stirred up in the past weeks. A rising star, has appeared on the stage, currently unchallenged. Each night the restaurant, which, on my last review I condemned to the tourist trade, rakes in a flood of reviews, ranging from positive to glowing. However, as a food critic, I do not tend to have such a short memory as these reviewers seem to. Despite the years of rumors plaguing this abysmal eatery, from bankruptcy to closure to new management, Gusteau's has managed to steal its way to the top of the charts without a proper review from the one who judged it last. This new "chef" is forewarned that I will be coming to see for myself what he has set the culinary world on fire with, and that he should pray he does not disappoint."

It was deadly silent.

"Javert," Combeferre murmured at last, staring hard at the newspaper. "He's coming back."

"The last time he reviewed us, the restaurant lost a star," Joly said softly, looking at Grantaire. "Gusteau died a few months later. And then we lost another star."

"That was five years ago," Enjolras interjected. His brow was furrowed deeply. "We've changed since then. Revamped the kitchen and the menu, hired on new cooks." He looked up, his expression softer, but eyes still hard. "And we have Grantaire with us now." His voice grew stronger. "Javert is just another diner. Whatever he wants to do, we can take it. Our restaurant is not going down again because of him."

"You're right," Cosette said, her usually sweet face set in determination.

"But he's coming specifically for Grantaire," Montparnasse snapped.

"Who has quickly become one of the best chefs in the kitchen," Jehan countered. "We'll help him. It isn't the end of the world."

Grantaire certainly felt like it was.

"Jehan is right, Grantaire," Combeferre said. "We'll do whatever we can to help you succeed. If you can get past Thénardier, then you can get past Javert. There's nothing to be concerned about right now."

The other chefs murmured in agreement. It was a while before the group disbanded, setting about readying the kitchen for another day.

And despite their promises and assurances, the way that the mood in the kitchen remained tense and gloomy gave Grantaire plenty of reason to be believe that there was, indeed, something to be gravely concerned about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, more plot is happening. To be honest, I'm not a big fan of this chapter and have been trying to fix it for the last week or so. Still not happy, but it feels good to be posting again, so I hope you liked it! Thank you for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's having the worst week of their life? I have decided to take a break from my breakdown and post the final three chapters of this fic, as I also just received a pretty major art commission and began drafting a new story idea. I have no idea if I will be able to post again regularly (haha like I did that to begin with) so I am doing the rest now. Sorry if you're not into that :( Enjoy!

"So we don't know when he'll come, then?"

"That's how most food critics operate. They have to get the most impartial service they can from a restaurant. That means showing up unexpectedly, going under the radar. Some even come in disguise if they think they'll be recognized." Enjolras frowned. "But Javert always did love a bit of theatricality."

Grantaire sighed, watching Enjolras rinse off a soapy set of pans. They had stayed later than the rest of the team, intending to go over some new recipes for Grantaire to learn, in order to better prepare him for Javert's arrival.

The entire day, everyone had continued assuring him that it was no big deal, Grantaire had already dealt with food critics, the restaurant would do fine no matter what, popular opinions meant more than one bad review. The constant flood of these consolations didn't necessarily set Grantaire at ease- rather, he felt it proved everyone's obvious nerves over the whole ordeal.

Even Thénardier, who had been strangely calm and quiet that day, had responded with concern when Combeferre told him the news. Thénardier, probably better than any of them, knew full well what it would mean to get another scathing review from Javert. However, he had simply shut himself up in his office, not even sparing a nasty word or glance for Grantaire.

Enjolras alone had regained his confidence and ease, and under his firm direction, Grantaire felt at least marginally better. He knew that Enjolras, at least, wanted him to - and believed that he could - succeed. Even if Grantaire wasn't sure he could pull through, it helped to know Enjolras believed in him.

"Do you really think I'll be able to pull this off?" Grantaire asked as they hovered by the back door. He glanced back at the kitchen, big and gleaming and empty. Over the past few weeks it had become so familiar to him. Now, it looked cold, uninviting.  


Enjolras knit his brows. "Of course," he answered without hesitation. "I don't think it, I know it."

"I've only worked here a few months. Less, if you count when I started cooking."

"That doesn't matter. I've worked in this business for years, and I've never seen anyone find such huge success as fast as you have. That can't be for no good reason."

"But this is a professional, high-brow critic," Grantaire stressed, hearing his voice shake a little. "And I haven't had any formal training."

Enjolras gave him a bewildered look. "What do you think we've been doing the past few months?" Grantaire opened his mouth, ready to rebuff his argument, when the blonde cut him off. "Look. I've known you for almost three months now. I flatter myself that I know a thing or two about you." He looked Grantaire directly in the eye, gaze unwavering. "I know how much you put yourself down. I don't know why you feel the need to self-deprecate, and I'm not going to ask. But I will tell you this: you have talent. True, unbridled talent. And even if you don't think so, we both know you have the intelligence and skills to learn it anyway." He sighed, glancing away. "I believe in you."  


Grantaire had never faced such a severe barrage of compliments. "Why?" he asked, voice quiet. He felt lost.

Enjolras' shoulders slumped. "Because... I like you," he answered softly. "I like- talking to you. Teaching you. Spending time with you." He was looking at his feet now, the day's confidence washed away. "You're smart. And funny. And you want to learn, even though I know nobody has made this easy for you."

Grantaire could feel his heart pounding in his ears. "I like you too, Enjolras."

The other man stepped closer, eyes still on the floor. "I want you to stay," he said. "I want you to stay here, and work with me, and make me mad when you don't follow my instructions, and joke around with the other chefs, and come up with amazing new ideas."

Grantaire could easily have stepped back, Enjolras only a few inches away from him now.  He didn't. "I can't be the reason the restaurant fails," he said, hardly more than a whisper due to their close proximity. "I just can't. That, for sure, would kill me."  


"You won't be." He was so close now, Grantaire could have counted the faint freckles splashed across his nose. "I promise you."

When they finally kissed, Grantaire had a brief moment of panic. Not once, in his twenty-nine years of life, had another person ever initiated a kiss with him. The gentle pressure of Enjolras' hand resting on his upper arm steadied him, grounded him. He leaned back into the kiss.

*

Enjolras drove him home again that night. They didn't need the excuse of rain anymore.

Grantaire finally entered his apartment, dead on his feet from the day yet curiously feeling as though he was walking on air. It was dark, and he flicked on the light. In the silence of the tiny space, he could hear the distant sounds of the city outside.

He looked down at his hand. Across his palm, in neat, elegant handwriting, was a number scrawled in black marker. He smiled softly, running his thumb over it.

Maybe things with Javert would be okay, and maybe they wouldn't. At the moment, Grantaire couldn't bring himself to care. He fell asleep that night, eyes on the new painting hung on his wall, all thoughts of the critic gone from his mind.

*

By the next morning, Grantaire had resolved to move forward, no matter what. For the first time in a long while, things were going his way, and he was not going to let it be ruined by a sour old man who wanted power and attention.

Still keyed up from the events of the night before, Grantaire arrived to Gusteau's early, the late morning light streaming into the little alley. He was slightly disappointed not to see Enjolras' car parked in its usual spot, but cheered by the thought that he would be there soon. Enjolras was definitely one for punctuality.

Upon entering the kitchen, he noticed it was unusually quiet, despite a few of the chefs milling about. Grantaire wasn't necessarily concerned- it was a little early for most of them, and it was also a Friday. Most of them were ready for a day off on Sunday by this point. He had just picked up a clean apron when a sharp, harsh voice spoke, startlingly close to him.

It was Thénardier. How strange- the chef never showed up this early, usually pushing his arrival to just before opening time. "Monsieur Grantaire," he said, voice greasy and low. "How wonderful to see you here, bright and early."

Grantaire paused, not sure of how to respond to this unusual turn of events. "Good morning, chef," he said back, voice even despite his distrust of the man lurking beside him.

"I would like a word with you. In my office."  


"Now?"

"Now."

It felt almost like a death march, walking behind Thénardier to Valjean's office in the back corner. The dark interior, only slightly familiar to Grantaire after two visits, seemed a bit more foreboding with in Thénardier's presence, rather than Valjean's paternal air.

  
Once inside, he shut the door and looked at Grantaire with a strange, triumphant look in his eyes. "So," he said. "Our star. Getting ready for the big review, are you?"

"Yes," Grantaire said, guarded. "Enjolras has been helping me."

Thénardier did not sit down, nor did he ask Grantaire to do so. "I bet he has."

Grantaire didn't answer, not entirely sure what was going on.

"I was curious, in the beginning," Thénardier said casually, walking over to the desk and rifling through some papers. "How some garbage boy could be such a great chef, could set Paris on fire with his work in my kitchen." He was no longer looking at Grantaire. "Yes, I was very curious about you, Grantaire."

Grantaire felt a bit of his strength return. He lifted his chin, arms crossed. "About what, sir?"

"Your past," the other man said brightly, almost genial. "Where you came from, how you could have learned to be such a fabulous chef without training!"

"I'm not sure, sir," Grantaire said. Despite his confusion, Thénardier's words were beginning to anger him.

"Where are you, from, Grantaire?"  


"Nîmes.”

"And how did you find yourself living in Paris?"

Ice suddenly filled Grantaire’s chest. "I'm sorry?"

"You're from the south. I was wondering why you would come here. Valjean is so secretive; never tells me a thing about the people he hires." Thénardier's eyes were shining. "And I was curious, after all. I decided to do some digging myself."

The ensuing silence was terrible.

"Two years at Fleury-Mérogis prison, yes? What a shame, really."

And there it was- the conversation Grantaire had been expecting from the first day he'd stepped foot into Gusteau's. Had he really been so stupid to think someone wouldn't bother to figure it out; that it wouldn't come back for him like it always did? And on that first day... when Valjean had read about his prior work history...

"I read up on you, " he remarked. "About what happened. Theft, breaking and entering, property damage. Got yourself into quite a bit of trouble, didn’t you? Not to mention all your misdemeanors before. Vandalism. Trespassing. And more property damage.”

Rage flooded into Grantaire with full force. "As much as you like to believe it, you are not the manager of this restaurant," he hissed, feeling angrier than he had in a very, very long time. A memory of Enjolras' words on the night of the fateful soup's creation came back to him. "Valjean is my boss, not you, and he hired me knowing full well what the truth was. You don't have the power to get rid of me."

Thénardier didn't respond with the violence and anger Grantaire had expected. Rather, he smiled widely. "Get rid of you?" he asked, mock surprise in his voice. "Why should I do that?" His voice became darker, and so did his face. For the first time in knowing him, Grantaire suddenly detected a hint of danger in the man across from him. "No, Grantaire, I am fully aware of my power in this kitchen. The pretty blonde one has seen to that many times before."   


The man nodded in thought, almost mockingly. "But you will understand, of course, that later today I will have to share this news with the rest of our- _team_." He relished in the way the blood suddenly drained from Grantaire's face, anger gone just as swiftly as it had come. "It is only fair, of course, that they know what kind of person they are working with. After all, if something were to happen..."

The rest of the world felt strangely distant, fuzzy. Thénardier- he- he couldn't.  


Bossuet. Courfeyrac. Cosette. Enjolras. An entire crew of people Grantaire had found comfort, familiarity, acceptance with for the first time in his life. He felt as though he couldn't catch his breath. "I... you can't do that."

Thénardier smiled slowly, laying down his full house. "I do wonder what some of them will say. The people we know can surprise us. But you can't worry about that now, can you?" His smile became venomous. "After all, you have a critic to prepare for."

*  


This was it. It had finally happened.

Grantaire left the office as if in a dream. He didn't even have time to look over the kitchen, to give it one last glance. Enjolras was standing near the giant pantry, talking with Jehan, that lazy morning light catching his hair just so. He was wearing a halo of fire.

He felt an urge to go to him, make some excuse, apologize.

Stupid. He should have known good things never last.

His exit was swift, silent. If he imagined hard enough, he could pretend he heard Enjolras say his name as the door slammed shut behind him.


	6. Chapter 6

The calls had been jarring, in the beginning. That first night, Enjolras' number, still brand new to Grantaire's phone, had called three times, each an hour apart. That was the night Grantaire had left. Since then, there was only silence.

Grantaire never picked up. What did it matter anyway? He'd seen yesterday's paper, with it's article on Gusteau's new chef's strange departure from the restaurant. No doubt Thénardier's news would soon follow. And besides, if Enjolras really wanted to talk to him, he knew his address. It'd be harder to ignore a face to face conversation, at least, Grantaire mused. He'd been letting the answering machine take most of the abuse.

It had been three days since Grantaire had learned all good things inevitably crash and burn and die, just like his life always did when things began to look up. You'd think a guy would learn. Grantaire didn't know if Javert had been to Gusteau's yet; hadn't bothered to find out. Probably not. If he had, the abysmal review would have already caught Grantaire's eye. Imagining how he had left the entire team defenseless against the ruthless critic gave Grantaire the squirming sensation of guilt, but it was quickly quashed by the knowledge that likely none of them wanted him there anymore. Every last person in that kitchen was smart and talented. They'd figure it out.

He was sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the angry red and black swipes of paint on his forearms and jeans (which matched the marks on a nearby canvas or two) when a polite tapping drew him out of his self loathing. 

At first he was confused; in all his time living in this apartment (and any other apartment in Paris) nobody had ever knocked at his door. For one wild moment, Grantaire found himself thinking (definitely _not_ wishing) that it was Enjolras or Bossuet or someone from the restaurant, someone come to burst in and shout and yell and demand he explain himself, demand he fix his mess, demand he come back. It was almost preferable to silence.

He jumped up, mind already racing ahead to apologies, arguments, confrontations. Whatever was on the other side of the door, it was no coincidence it was there now. He wrenched open the door, shoving aside what felt like a faint trace of hope.

It was jarring then, after expecting an angry or cold or sad Enjolras, to find standing in his dilapidated hallway none other than Valjean himself, looking as kind and warm as ever, if only a tad more weary.

"Oh, god," Grantaire heard himself mutter, embarrassment flooding in an instant later.

Valjean smiled politely, like he always did, exuding comfort and ease even with the shadows under his eyes. "Monsieur Grantaire," he said, "It has been quite a feat these last few days, learning the whole story and tracking you down." He sighed. "May I come in?"

Grantaire felt dumbstruck, something he had become unwillingly accustomed to in the last few months. "I- yeah. Sure."

He stood back from the door, suddenly acutely aware of the paint splatters everywhere, the cramped and dim space bizarrely juxtaposed with Valjean, crossing the threshold. The man had an air of both genial ease and relaxed power, neither of which went with the general self-pity mood Grantaire had cultivated in the apartment.

"Um- sorry about the mess, I wasn't-"

"Please." The old man held up a hand, removing his wool coat and draping it over the arm of the sofa. "Those who unexpectedly barge into others' homes have no business judging how they keep it."

Grantaire bit his lip. "How about some tea?"

"That sounds wonderful."

It was oppressively silent as he moved about the tiny corner that acted as a kitchen, setting the water to boil and digging through the cupboard for cups. Valjean stood at the large window, taking in the view of the city as he let Grantaire work.

In only a few minutes it was done, and they sat on the couch together with the steaming cups in hand.

"I used to live in a place just like this," Valjean began, voice polite but cryptic. He blew gently on his tea.

"Oh?" Grantaire wasn't sure how to respond.

"Yes. Many years ago, before I adopted Cosette. But that view." Valjean sighed again, almost wistfully. "I never had anything so lovely to look at."

When Grantaire stayed silent, the old man looked at him directly. "I do apologize for the unannounced visit. I realize this is not the most orthodox method of meeting with each other, but as I said, it has been a very tiresome week. And I ran out of ideas." He smiled.

"No, it's fine. Obviously you're not interrupting anything."

"Are you sure?" He nodded to the splattered canvases propped up against the wall. "That doesn't look like nothing." Grantaire had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. "Well, no matter." Valjean looked back down at his tea. "I won't take up too much of your time. I just thought I was owed at least your side of the story."

Grantaire blinked at him. "Sorry?" He had yet to take a sip of his own tea.

"Well, you can imagine how alarming it was for me a few days ago to be barraged by messages from my head chefs telling me you had suddenly quit without a word, and the ensuing headlines in the paper." Valjean nodded. "Yes, it was a very strange turn of events. I did wonder, how such a charming and talented man such as yourself could leave us in our hour of need. Of course, I immediately wanted to know the whole story."

"Sir-"

"Just wait, monsieur, while I explain. I promise you will have a chance to tell your story." Grantaire shut his mouth, heart thudding heavily.

Valjean sighed again, staring pensively into his cup. "Have you ever been to Digne?" Grantaire shook his head. "It's a small town in the south, not far from Nice. It sits in a valley, where several streams meet. That's where I'm from." He paused, giving him a meaningful look. "When I was young, both of my parents died. My sister and I were hardly more than children at the time, and we had grown up relatively poor and isolated. We knew hardly anything about the world." He smiled ruefully. "It is a story I'm sure you and I have in common."

Grantaire nodded silently. "Well, it's quite a historic town," Valjean continued. "A history of wars and rebellion and religion. It also has an extensive history of flooding and earthquakes. And as we found ourselves suddenly alone in the world, with our home destroyed in the wake of natural disaster, it became harder and harder to get by." He glanced back at Grantaire, looking even more tired than before. "It wasn't a year before the two of us were stealing to make ends meet. It started out small at first, but after a while..." he trailed off. Grantaire felt afraid to breathe too hard, the tea in his hands forgotten. "Eventually I got caught. And arrested. And sent to prison. It all added up to two years, in the end."

The room fell silent again. Valjean took a sip of tea, casual as anything, as though he was not spilling his life story. "When I was released, I learned my sister had left the country. Hating the world and hating myself, I wound up in Paris. Alone and penniless. I very nearly returned to the lifestyle I had led before. Until I was offered a second chance." He laughed lightly. "Oh, trust me, it was no overnight success. As I said, I found myself living in a place just like this, working odd jobs. Before long I worked my way up to a manager position. Shortly after that I met Cosette's mother, and then adopted Cosette. And then I met Gusteau and became a co-owner of his restaurant. Which brings us to now."

He paused then. "Grantaire, I cannot begin to say how sorry I am that things have turned out the way that they have. I have known Thénardier for so many years, and I never truly imagined..." He cleared his throat. "My mistake. I am afraid I have a rather nasty habit of only seeing what I wish to see in others. I misjudged him, and you have paid the price.”

Grantaire stared hard at his shoes. "So then he did tell them. All of them."

"I'm afraid so. I believe jealousy and the threat of a new and more talented chef drove him back to his criminal ways."

"Back?"

"Indeed. Thénardier and I knew each other during our time together in prison. He was once involved in gangs and con artistry, affiliations I had hoped he was no longer involved in. Evidently I was wrong."

Grantaire didn't know whether to laugh or cry. So all along, the bastard himself had a history too. "I- didn't know."

"Well, I don't usually make a habit of revealing the personal matters of my employees. The restaurant business is full of diversity in those regards. Why, even now Gusteau's kitchen is staffed by petty thieves, ex-con artists, even political activists with a few arrests under their belt."

Grantaire felt simultaneously relieved and like the biggest idiot that had ever existed. "Really?"

Valjean smiled slightly. "Really. Now, I won’t name names, but know that I do believe strongly in second chances and the power of redemption. Almost always, a person is never too far gone."

"Almost always?"

"Yes. Occasionally there will be some who return to their old ways, no matter what." Valjean sighed again, looking more troubled now. "It was difficult, but eventually I knew I would have to let Thénardier go. I relieved him of his duties the day after your- untimely departure."

Grantaire felt a strange fluttering of hope in his chest. "You fired him?"  


"I did."

For the millionth time that evening, Grantaire was at a loss for words. "Sir, I'm..."

"It had to be done.  But enough of that. I told you you would have a chance to tell your side, and now it is here."

"My side?"

"Yes. Why did you quit?"

Grantaire was stumped. It was obvious, wasn't it? "I served prison time. I was a criminal. And once Thénardier threatened to tell the others the truth..." He ran a hand through his hair. "I respect them too much. I thought if they knew the truth about me it would be the end of anything good in that kitchen. I thought it would be easier to leave." 

Valjean smiled again, a real smile with warmth and comfort. "My dear boy, you have no idea how untrue that is. You are an artist, yes?" He gestured once again to the paintings against the wall, and continued before Grantaire could correct him. "Artists must be imaginative and strong-hearted. They try things that may not always work, something which I hear you have done exceedingly well in my kitchen. Artists like you, and like all the others in that kitchen are full of a passion and fire which should never be put out because others cannot handle it."

Grantaire couldn't help himself. "My last two jobs I was fired from after coworkers found me out or accused me of things. I wanted to leave of my own accord this time."

The old man nodded thoughtfully. "I see." He looked out the window again, at the glittering city skyline. "Perhaps it was easier. And perhaps you felt it was your only choice. But let me tell you something I was told all those years ago, when I had nothing and no one." He fixed Grantaire with that warm gaze. "You must never let anyone define your limits because of where you come from. Your only limit is your soul. Every failure is only an event that brings you closer to your eventual success. If you close the door to failure, you will never last long enough to succeed."

The pregnant silence that ensued these words was interrupted then, by the chiming of the old, cracked clock hung on the opposite wall. Valjean glanced at it before standing, and Grantaire followed, feeling oddly lost in his own home.

"I am afraid I have stayed overlong," Valjean said gently, setting his cup down on the chipped coffee table. He picked up his coat. "I hope this conversation has been enlightening to you, as it has been for me. And now I have only one request of you."

"Yes?"

The old man pulled on his coat. "Come back to the restaurant."

"... What?"

"I want you to come back. You are incredibly talented, you have a passion for your craft, and you work marvelously well with the rest of the staff. It would be a great shame to loose you over such a trivial matter."

"I don't know if they'll want me back," Grantaire mumbled. "I did just lie to them and then walk out before a major critic's review."

"I assure you they do. When I spoke to them, there was not one person who felt as though you should have quit. They value your skills and miss you terribly." There was a sudden twinkle in his eye. "Especially a certain _chef de partie_."

The previous fluttering in Grantaire's stomach erupted into a full-on case of butterflies, mercifully not exacerbated by a blush. "Oh," he said eloquently.

"So what do you say?" Valjean moved towards the door.

"I- I'm not sure," he answered honestly.

Valjean nodded. "Humor an old man and think about it. If only for as long as they need you to be there." He opened the door. "Thank you for the tea, and for listening to me so long. I hope you'll consider my offer."

Grantaire nodded. "Thank you, sir. For- everything."

He smiled, some of the weariness gone from his face, and stepped into the hallway, gently shutting the door behind him.

When he was gone, Grantaire sank back onto the couch, suddenly as exhausted as if he had just run a race. He no longer felt the self-pity from earlier. Now, all he was left with was his own uncertainty.

He slept fitfully that night, if at all, his decision still not made, wondering what he was going to do when the morning inevitably came.

*****

Standing outside the restaurant, almost half an hour after everyone else would have arrived, Grantaire still wasn't entirely convinced he wasn't making a mistake. He was caught halfway between kicking himself for showing up at all and kicking himself at showing up late enough that he guaranteed an audience for himself. Either way he was royally screwed. 

The doors seemed heavier than he remembered. As he leaned into them to push them open, he felt that swooping sensation of uncertainty and fear of- what? He couldn't be sure. He didn't know what he was supposed to be worried about anymore. The brief thought of those on the other side of the door prompted the impulsive decision to step into the kitchen.

It was almost an anticlimactic sensation, an out of body experience where, for a split second he stood squarely in the doorway, completely unnoticed. However, almost as quickly as it had come, the awkward moment passed, ended by a shout from across the kitchen. Before he could entirely process it, something hit him hard in the shoulder, the force of either Courfeyrac or Musichetta hitting him in the arm. He wasn't sure which, as almost instantly after that, Jehan and Joly were there, the former flinging his arms around Grantaire's shoulder and babbling excitedly. The noise only grew after that as the rest of the kitchen realized what was happening, and in a few moments he found the entire kitchen crowded around him, Cosette and Bossuet's smiling faces the brightest sight out of the bunch.

Everyone seemed to be trying to get his attention at once, Courfeyrac gesturing animatedly as he spoke about how much they all had missed him, Éponine berating him for leaving them behind, Joly trying to fill him in on everything that had happened since he'd left, and the jumbled chatter of all the others rising up around him. The overwhelming attention was almost disorienting.

Tearing his eyes away from the others, he scanned the kitchen, searching. Towards the far end of the kitchen, Combeferre was coming out of the office, presumably to see what the noise was about. His face, normally so serious, lit up upon seeing Grantaire. He turned, as if looking for something himself, and-

Oh.

Grantaire followed his gaze, only to find Enjolras there. Still tall, still blonde, still devastatingly beautiful, still... looking uncharacteristically blank. He was standing in the door of the refrigerator, arms crossed, aubergine in hand, and the detached look on his face among the general happiness in the room quickly destroyed any lingering hope Grantaire may have had for an amiable reconciliation. So much for Valjean's redemption.

Bossuet's voice intruded into Grantaire's inner monologue. "God, I'm glad you're back. These last few nights without you running your menu have been a nightmare. After Thénardier got fired and Combeferre took his job, it was harder to get into the swing of things and nobody had your recipes."  


"It was fucking awful," Éponine helpfully commented, albeit with a surprising lack of malice in her voice.

"We're all so glad you're back," Cosette said. "I was hoping my father would convince you, but it was Enjolras who asked him to see to it personally." Grantaire swallowed hard.

Feuilly grinned. "Yeah, you got a lot to make up for, walking out on us like that right before a major review."

"Luckily Javert still hasn't showed up yet."

"Even though we've still been busier than ever."

"And we didn't have most of your menu."

"And we also didn't have any new recipes."

"And Enj was being such a-"

"Okay, okay," Combeferre interrupted Courfeyrac, pushing through the huddle of people that had surrounded Grantaire. "Let's not overwhelm him." He clapped Grantaire on the shoulder, smiling warmly. "We're glad to have you back, Grantaire."

"It's, uh, good to be back," Grantaire answered, although it sort of sounded like a question. "I haven't decided whether I'm staying or not, though, I just didn't want to leave you to fend for yourselves-"

He was immediately cut off by cries of _"What?"_ and _"Of course you have to stay!"_ and _"We need you!"_. The hurt looks on Jehan and Cosette's faces were the worst part to see, and Grantaire's guilt remained high.

Combeferre intervened again. "That's enough," he said to the other chefs, nodding at Grantaire. "We will respect your opinion on this but I think you should know that everyone here would love to have you back."

The mumbled agreements from the others was enough to set Grantaire back at ease. "Well- thanks, I guess. To all of you. And 'm sorry for leaving so suddenly."

"Don't be," Musichetta said. "It's not our business. And anyway, now we don't have to put up with that bastard anymore."

"It's wonderful to have you back, Grantaire. Now, let's all get back to work," Combeferre said, his Chef voice coming out.

It took a few more lingering moments of echoing his sentiments before they all moved back to their stations, a livelier hum about the kitchen. Combeferre turned to look at Grantaire. "I really am glad you've come back," he sighed, though he was still smiling. "It's all been a bit hectic and disjointed since you'e been gone, and I hope we can convince you to stay."

"Maybe." Grantaire still felt uncertain. There was one opinion on his return to the restaurant he had yet to hear.

Combeferre nodded again. "Well, either way, I just want you to know that you are still welcome here." His voice became more serious. "Thénardier... Things should never have gone as far as they did. Your personal life is your own business, including what you choose to share with us, and- well, maybe you shouldn't have just quit, but nobody blames you for it." He smiled wryly. "I suppose it's thanks to you that we're rid of that man, but I just wish it didn't have to happen the way it did."

Grantaire nodded, glancing at the floor. He felt a little uncomfortable with Combeferre's candid and open words, unused to the feeling of being forgiven so readily without the issue being swept aside. "Thanks," he said. "I know it was a jerk move, but I guess you could say I've been burned in the past before."

The chef pursed his lips. "We would be the biggest hypocrites ever to judge you for your past," he answered. He sighed. "But enough of that. I think it's time we welcomed you back into the kitchen the old-fashioned way: putting you straight to work."

Despite himself, Grantaire smiled. "That sounds great."

"After Thénardier was fired, Valjean promoted me to head chef." There was a note of pride in Combeferre's voice. "Enjolras is the new sous chef, and Éponine is our head _chef de partie_." He gestured to the dishwashing station in the corner of the kitchen, where Bossuet and a short teenage boy were stacking clean plates in a cart. "That's our new _plongeur_ , Gavroche, he's Éponine's little brother."

"So who am I training under now?" Grantaire asked, hanging his coat and bag in the cupboard and retrieving an apron.

"Oh, you'll still be working with Enjolras," Combeferre said, sounding much too casual for Grantaire's comfort. "But I'll let the others know to keep an eye out for you too. Not that you need it." He smiled. "I just think the rules should be much more relaxed than before." He glanced at the clock hung on the wall. "Why don't you get started, there's still plenty of time before we open and you'll need to get back into the swing of things. And-" He paused, frowning.  


"Yeah?"  


"Can I ask you something? Not as your boss?"

It was Grantaire's turn to frown. "Er- sure?"

"Will you talk to Enjolras?" Grantaire's butterflies were back. "It's just- he's been upset the last few days and I know for a fact he'd rather die than initiate a conversation about his feelings." Combeferre rolled his eyes."So- just try and get along with him?"  


Grantaire couldn't imagine a more intimidating task. "Sure."

"Thanks. And don't tell him I told you any of that. Or that I asked you."  


"Yeah."

The chef nodded, relief in his eyes. "It really is great to have you back. I hope you'll change your mind."

Grantaire watched him walk back to the office, realizing in that moment that he'd have to now walk up to and engage in conversation with Enjolras. Great.

To stall a bit longer, he went back to the cupboard and got his knife roll out of his bag. It was new, hardly used more than a handful of times, the blades still unfamiliar in his hands. Only a few weeks before, Enjolras had offered to help him pick out his own set, claiming he was tired of sharing with Grantaire. He had been smiling a little when he said it, so Grantaire was almost certain he'd been joking, but regardless he'd gotten the one Enjolras had recommended and allowed the blonde to teach him how each blade was used, what each one was for, and how to take care of them. Grantaire ran his hand over the smooth cloth of the roll, dwelling on those memories for a moment, before he took a deep breath, turned on his heel, and marched across the kitchen.


	7. Chapter 7

"I need two racks of lamb and more leeks!"

"One order of steamed pike up!"

"I need two salmon and three filet!"

"Firing two orders, seared salmon!"

"Where's that special order?"

"Coming!"

Grantaire grabbed the dishes he was plating, carefully adding sauce to each sweetbread before setting them to be taken to the dining room. Almost instantly, Bahorel swung by, placing them on his tray and whisking them through the swinging doors.

He went back to monitoring his sauce, tweaking the levels of salt and stock until he was happy with it. Across the kitchen, Courfeyrac called out, "I need two special orders and two salade composee!" He nodded at Grantaire, smiling and walked back into the dining room.

Grantaire went to set the next order to cook.  As he placed the veal in the pan, he glanced up to the sauce station, where Enjolras was talking with Montparnasse and Éponine. They all seemed to be frowning at the soup for the evening, and briefly, Montparnasse's eye flickered over to where Grantaire was working. Grantaire looked away, busying himself with his dish. He had been back at the restaurant for two days now, and aside from a bland, polite conversation on his first day back and a few moments in between, he had hardly spoken to Enjolras. The chef was still perfectly pleasant, but he had grown distant after Grantaire's leave, and Grantaire hadn't found the courage in himself to do as Combeferre had asked. If Enjolras didn't want anything to do with him anymore, if he was no longer interested in Grantaire or teaching him, well. It wouldn't be the first time.

He set about plating the finished food. Though he hadn't realized it at the time, being away from the kitchen had made him miss it sorely. When he had gotten back, it had only felt all too natural to fall back into the routine; the place he had once found chaotic and rushed turned into something exciting and ordered. He liked it. It was the most passionate he had felt about a job in a long time, and the longer he thought about it the harder it was for him to consider leaving.

As he carried the plates to the front of the kitchen, Marius flashed him a quick smile, and he received another when Courfeyrac took the plates from him. Everyone had been exceedingly kind to him since he'd returned, and Grantaire wasn't sure if that was because he was genuinely desired if the kitchen or if they just desperately wanted him to stay on. It was nice either way, but he couldn't help but hope it was the former rather than the latter.

He set about gathering some more supplies for the night, ducking quickly in and out of the pantry and freezer to grab what he needed. As he examined the several boxes of fresh vegetables stacked just inside the refrigerator, he saw Musichetta breeze in from the dining room and head straight to Combeferre's office. Absentmindedly, he hoped there wasn't a customer with a complaint about their dinner, as he chose mushrooms and garlic and headed back to his station.

"Everyone! A quick announcement!"

Grantaire turned at Combeferre's words, confused, and so did a few other chefs. The head chef had moved to stand at the head of the kitchen as movement and shouting died down.

He took a deep breath, looking troubled. Musichetta had her arms crossed and was leaning against a counter, her expression mimicking Combeferre's.

"Javert is finally here." Grantaire could almost hear the collective intake of breath across the kitchen, in tandem with the sudden drop in his stomach. Vaguely, he wondered why he had ever come back at all. This was destined to be a disaster. "I just want to let you all know so you will be prepared, and to remind you that we have nothing to worry about. I know what this kitchen is capable of, and I believe in every one of you. Javert is just another customer." He nodded at Enjolras across the kitchen, who was staring determinedly back at him. "Let's cook!"

A worried hum had taken over the kitchen, under the clang of pans and crackling of good food being made. Grantaire felt sick to his stomach. This was finally it.

Combeferre marched over to him, that worried look still on his face. "Enjolras!" he called, gesturing to the blonde. "Come here."

Granntaire stared at his shoes, black against the white tiles. "Yes, chef?" Enjolras' voice was perfectly even, as strong and assured as Grantaire remembered it being.

"I'm going to need you to work with Grantaire tonight." Combeferre looked at him. "You know I believe in your abilities, but I want to make sure you have a second set of eyes and hands for this. Enjolras will help you with anything you need, understood? Musichetta is going to wait on him."

"Yes, chef," they both answered.

Combeferre nodded and then took a deep breath, as if he wanted to say something more. Instead, he bit his lip and stared at them for a moment. "Good luck," he finally said.

"We don't need it." Grantaire looked to Enjolras in surprise. Though he still hadn't turned to look at him, the chef seemed confident enough. That made one of them.

Combeferre nodded again and left, moving to supervise the kitchen since Enjolras was grounded.

Right. Enjolras.

Grantaire turned to look at him, feeling both apprehension and hope that they could at least pull this meal off together. Enjolras looked back at him, brows furrowed.

"We can do this," he finally said, surprising Grantaire yet again. His voice was still neutral, but his eyes had gained a hard, steely glint to them. "I wasn't going to let Thénardier ruin your chances in this kitchen, and I'm not going to let Javert do it either. You need to cook like you have no idea he's out there."

After days of virtual silence, Grantaire wasn't expecting an impassioned pep talk to be the first thing Enjolras said to him. He couldn't think of what to say, but settled for, "Thank you. For helping me."

Enjolras paused for a moment. "Help me clean up this station," he said finally. "We need to have the whole space free to work."

They had just finished cleaning up, transferring the making of any special order sweetbreads to Éponine, when Musichetta came back into the kitchen, looking disgruntled. Rather than calling out an order, however, she made her way across the kitchen to Grantaire.  


"Well?" Enjolras asked impatiently as soon as she got to them.  


"God, he's an ass." Musichetta rolled her eyes. "He wouldn't place an order. Said all he wants is perspective."  


"What?"  


"He said to 'hit him with your best shot'." Musichetta's deadpan delivery and the irritation on her face did not boost Grantaire's confidence.  


"But what are we-"

"Look, just make him something great that you can't screw up," she interrupted. Grantaire was grateful for her frank tone, but still had practically no clue what was expected of him. "And get it out quickly, I feel like he's not the patient type."

He turned to Enjolras as she left, looking for- what? Guidance? Support? The answer about what to do written across his beautiful face?  


Enjolras took one look at Grantaire and rolled his eyes, heading for Combeferre's office. In minutes he was back with a box, and when he opened it Grantaire saw it was stuffed with old recipe cards written in shaky handwriting and fading type.

"Gusteau's personal recipe box," Enjolras said. "We need to pick something from here. I don't want him to get them same special order sweetbread everyone else is eating in that dining room."

Grantaire nodded, feeling the culinary instinct he had slowly been taught over the last few months returning. "We can serve him the soup while we make his dinner, so he can taste my original recipe."  


"Good idea." Enjolras pulled out a few cards. "Now start looking?"

Grantaire took a handful himself. "What do we know about him? Where he's from, what he likes?" he asked tentatively.

"He tends to be a wild card," Enjolras answered, frowning at a recipe for beef bourguignon. "But he's from the south, and I think he comes from a lower-class background, I'm not sure."

Almost ten minutes of near-breathless searching ensued. Every card offered something different - coq au vin, eggs en meurette, confit de canard - yet none seemed right.  


"Look at this." Grantaire held the seventeenth card he had examined up. Enjolras took it from him, eyes narrowing as he read it.

"Confit byaldi?" he asked skeptically. "It's not exactly a gourmet dish."

"I know. My parents used to make it in a stew form when I was young."  


"And you want to serve Javert _this?"_ Enjolras seemed to be loosing some of his previous confidence. "It's a type of vegetable stew,those usually get better after they sit overnight."

Grantaire took a deep breath. "Trust me. It's going to work out."  


Enjolras looked back down at the card. It seemed forever as he thought, the gears spinning in his head almost visible.

"Okay," he said at last. Grantaire let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Let's do it."

It almost felt like it had before, the two of them working in easy silence among the bustling kitchen. The soup went out first, under Grantaire's personal supervision to ensure the taste and consistency was perfect. He watched it leave the kitchen, a vague feeling of helplessness as his fate was sealed, before getting back to work. No point worrying now.  


Enjolras worked at his side, showing him how to slice the aubergine, courgette, tomatoes and peppers necessary. "Use a mandoline, not a knife," he said when Grantaire picked up the paring knife. He handed him what looked like a cutting board with a blade in the center. "Tilt it at an angle resting on the counter and run the vegetable over it." He demonstrated, removing the end from the courgette and sliding it across the blade. "Your cuts will be more uniform and it'll go much faster."

He left Grantaire to it, the vegetables all being turned into neat rounds as they fell onto the counter. On the stove next to him, Enjolras cooked down the scraps from the other vegetables, along with garlic and onions. After a quick trip through a blender and a dash of seasoning, the sauce for the dish had become a deep, warm red.

The process of layering each individual vegetable in the dish seemed to take forever, but Enjolras insisted they stay at it, placing every round in a spiral pattern on top of a layer of the sauce, until the pan was completely full. Finally, Grantaire covered it with parchment paper and slid it into the hot oven, shutting the door slowly.

It was an odd moment, the two of them standing there and staring at the stove. Grantaire half-expected a smile, or at least a congratulations.

He didn't get either. Enjolras ran a hand through his hair, looking slightly frazzled. "I'm going to check on the rest of the kitchen," he said. "You can handle keeping an eye on that and helping Éponine, yes?"  


"Yes," Grantaire answered. It wasn't as though he really had a choice.  


When Enjolras was gone and Grantaire had set about helping Éponine with the soup and vegetable dishes, he felt as though, for the first time in nearly an hour, he could catch a breath. While not exactly the nightmare he had imagined, Javert's evening in the restaurant was still not something Grantaire felt he wanted to experience again. Granted, he hadn't been in the restaurant business for very long and really had no idea how critic reviews went down, he hoped they weren't always as stressful as this. Éponine, who had always struck him as a tough-love type, seemed to notice his exhaustion.

"You can relax," she said casually to him, keeping a close eye on a pan of scallops nearby. "He's not here."

"Sorry?"  


"Enjolras. He's not watching us. You don't need to keep freaking out."

Grantaire furrowed his brows. "I'm not freaking out."  


"Sure." Éponine rolled her eyes a little. "He is glad you're here, you know. Even if he won't say it. He's kind of a stubborn ass that way, but he was upset when you left."  


Grantaire chose not to say anything, instead turning his attention to the pan of onions he was cooking.

"And take it from someone who has spent her whole life surrounded by criminals, it's really not a big deal." She used a slotted spoon to scoop the scallops from the pan, setting them aside. "Restaurant industries are full of them. In fact, most businesses in general. The good ones don't care." She turned the heat up on the pan, adding flour to the liquid. She turned to wink at him. "And who hasn't had brushes with the law anyway? God knows I have."

Despite himself, Grantaire smiled a little. "I guess you're right. Thanks."

"Hand me that cruet?" She pointed at a glass bottle of oil on the other side of the stove. He passed it to her, adding a splash of wine to his own pan.

"What do you think Javert will say about tonight?" Grantaire asked. He hadn't spent much time with Éponine since he'd begun working there, but there was something about her frank attitude that made her an extremely easy person to talk to. Enjolras was also an easy person to talk to, when he wasn't being passive aggressive,  but since that was the case he'd have to make do.

Éponine shrugged. "Does it really matter?"  
  


Grantaire stared at her, hopefully giving her the correct 'are-you-insane' look. "Um- yeah? It does? What if he hates it?"

"He might." She smiled wryly. "But what's he going to do about it? Kill you? Send you to jail for the rest of your life?" She stirred her thickened sauce. "Javert is self-important. It takes almost no talent to sit and criticize the work of those more talented and passionate than he'll ever be. Just let go."

"I thought his review killed Gusteau."

"Gusteau had heart problems for years. Nobody killed him. And artists have to have thick skin, right? You can't please everyone every time. That's just the way it is." She looked up at him, eyes hard. "You have to have faith in yourself or you'll never get anywhere. And stop caring what other people think about you."

They worked in silence for a couple minutes more, Grantaire mulling deeply over what she had said. Éponine was smarter than she looked. Talking to her made him feel better than anything anyone else had said to him so far, even Valjean himself. Stop caring about what other people thought... Easier said than done. But maybe it could be managed.

A hand brushing his shoulder startled Grantaire out of his reverie. He turned to see Enjolras peering down at his and Éponine's work. "It should be done by now. I'll show you how to plate it."  


Éponine nodded and took over Grantaire's pans easily. "Think about what I said," she told him.

"I will."

Grantaire pulled the hot pan out of the stove as Enjolras retrieved a plate and a circular mold from Jehan's station. The vegetables, when uncovered, looked amazing, if he did say so himself.  


"Since it isn't a stew we're going to have to get creative," Enjolras muttered. He placed the mold onto the center of the plate. " Get a spoon and fill the circle so that the vegetables stand.

Enjolras watched him like a hawk as Grantaire carefully placed the layers of vegetables into the mold, first stacking them straight up and then tucking them around the edges to polish the look. When it looked as good as possible, he pulled the mold off, topping it with a light drizzle of the piperade sauce it had cooked in.

"There." He sighed, taking a step back to look at the plate. "What do you think?"

Enjolras seemed to genuinely consider the question for a moment. "I think it looks perfect."

Only a few short momeents later, Musichetta took the plate, carrying it into the dining room. It was out of their hands now.

The evening passed in a blur after that. Grantaire had expected that the food would be immediately sent back with complaints, or some sort of dramatic scene from the dining room. What was almost more unsettling was the fact that they heard nothing back at all. At the end of the night, as the rush was dying down, he heard Musichetta telling Joly and Combeferre and Enjolras that Javert had left almost without a word, and that he hadn't said anything at all about the meal. Grantaire was slightly comforted to hear that the critic had actually finished his dinner, something he was not really known to do, but it offered little relief from the fact that he had remained completely silent.

  
Perhaps that was just the way Javert was playing it, keeping quiet now and saving the drama for his written review. With nothing to go off of, Grantaire wouldn't be surprised if his critique was scathing come morning.

For once, everyone seemed to linger after closing time. The kitchen was wiped down, the dining room cleaned, everything ready for the next day of work. It had been the first day with everyone back together in the kitchen, in their new roles. Combeferre as head chef made the place more efficient; Enjolras as the sous made the food look and taste better; Éponine as the head chef de partie offered more assistance to the other chefs. The kitchen ran better than before, and with Javert's review hanging over their heads, Grantaire could only hope it was enough.  


Jehan and Joly omplimented his work for the night as they all filtered out into the alley, the kitchen lights flickering off behind them. Bahorel wished him good luck, and Éponine sent him an assured smile. Grantaire appreciated it all, but- he hoped their expectations weren't too high.  


As he walked back down the alley, headed home at last, he heard Enjolras call out to him, as he had so many times before.

"You did well tonight," he said. Grantaire turned to look at him, in that damn red coat. "Don't overthink it."

It wasn't anywhere near everything Grantaire needed or wanted to hear from him. But, as he walked home, he'd be lying if he denied that hope, strong and real, was finally returning.

*

It was a long, torturous night before the silence was broken. The relief of finally being able to know fought with the terror of it. Grantaire sat on his windowsill, overlooking the city, early in the morning, and read.

_"In many ways, the work of a critic is easy, and perhaps even enviable. We risk very little in doing our job, and enjoy the pleasure of negative criticism, which is fun to read and to write. However there comes a point when every critic must face themselves and realize that the work they do is far less valuable than the works which they critique. Others offer up their work for judgement, and in doing so, make themselves vulnerable to us._

_"It is said that those who cook with love are better than those who cook for fame. For the first time, I have found myself in the unexpected position in learning this first hand. Last night, I expected to be disappointed, and was determined to make sure I was. In the past, I have kept no secret about my disdain for Gusteau's, those the restaurant hires, and the late chef's belief that "anyone can cook". This critic has always seen haute cuisine as an exclusive club, only for those of the strongest hearts and most passionate creativity, who have fought lifetimes to establish their reputation. I realize now I was wrong on both accounts. Not everyone can become a great artist, but a great artist can come from anywhere. And great food, like great art, literature, music or poetry, is not about the simplicity or complexity of the thing itself, but rather how effective it is in inspiring emotion._

_"Upon my visit to Gusteau's, I learned that the law of fine cooking is not immovable. This revelation has rocked me to my core. Artists do not need to be famous or wizened or conform to society's expectations to produce something truly great. The meal I was served at Gusteau's was among the simplest, yet finest, food I have ever had the pleasure to critique in my career. For the first time in years, I was not critiquing, but rather eating. The young genius now working at Gusteau's is, in this critic's opinion, the finest chef in Paris. I shall be returning again, hungry for more."_

Grantaire watched the city in the wee hours of the morning, watched the tentative sunrise slowly light up the roofs all the way to the horizon. He watched, waited, and wondered.

*

"I said, do you want to go somewhere with me?"

Almost a week later, Grantaire found himself standing at the foot of the stairs in that back alley behind the restaurant. At the top of the stairs, Enjolras was fluffing out his hair from under the collar of that jacket again, looking glorious in the bright kitchen lights against the dark alley.

Grantaire was almost tempted to say _"Sorry?"_ again, to see if he could get a rise out of the chef. "What do you mean?"

Enjolras shrugged casually, descending one stair, the keys to the kitchen in hand. "I mean, for coffee or something."

"Don't you think it's a little late for coffee?"

"Tea, then. Or water. Or nothing at all."

"Why?"

"I want to talk."

"What about Combeferre and Courfeyrac? Aren't you their ride?"

Enjolras bit his lip slightly, glancing to the other end of the alley where a shivering Courfeyrac was dramatically clutching at Combeferre's arm, the chef himself grinning stupidly down at him. "They can take the Metro. If they make it that far." He turned around, flicking the kitchen lights off and letting the doors close. He fumbled briefly with the keys in his hands. "And anyway, they already said it was fine."

Grantaire considered the offer as Enjolras finished locking up. In the last week, the easy rapport between them had slowly come back. In the light of Javert's review, the amazed and ecstatic restaurant had experienced larger crowds than it had in years. Things were beginning to look up again, and after Valjean and Éponine's words with him, Grantaire was far less ready to let the past and his expectations ruin the present. For once, he was excited for the future.

"Okay."

It was an easy walk together through the twinkling, magical city. Grantaire had almost grown used to the sight of it by now, he'd forgotten how beautiful it was. The conversation came easy, talking about the night's shift and new ideas for recipes and flavors Grantaire had. It was nice.

  
"So what did you want to talk about? Or was that code for something else?"

Grantaire grinned at Enjolras across the tiny table. They had wound up at one of the countless little cafes across the city, squeezed together at a small table in the back of the building. Enjolras rolled his eyes a little, glancing down at his coffee. Grantaire wondered what kind of person would drink black coffee so late at night.

"I really was just hoping to talk. I feel like there's a lot been left unsaid. I wasn't sure how else to approach it, other than head on."

"Right." Grantaire glanced out the window across from them, seeing the cafe being reflected back in the darkened glass.

Enjolras stared at him for a moment before looking away, sighing. "I guess I wanted to apologize for the way I acted when you came back." Grantaire looked back at him. "It was- uncalled for. I should have explained myself then."

"You don't have to. You don't owe me anything. I mean, I did just lie to you for months. I should have been upfront with you." He ran a finger along the rim of his own cup.

"That's not what I meant." Enjolras frowned. "I just felt like you should know why. If you hadn't already figured it out yourself."

Grantaire smiled wryly. "Should I have?"

"Well, I'd kind of hoped you would. But forget about it." He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "And I'll admit, I was angry when you left."

"Oh really?" Grantaire could already see how this was shaping up to go. "I hadn't noticed."

He raised an eyebrow, looking remarkably unimpressed. "I'm just trying to say I was upset because I didn't think you should have done it. When you came back, I still wasn't sure what to think so I just stayed angry."

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? It was a stupid decision, I know that now, and enough people have already told me." Grantaire paused, an awkward tension between them as the waitress wiped the empty table beside them. Enjolras leaned his chin in his hand, looking impatient. "I know it's no excuse for leaving with no notice and I know you're well within your rights to be mad at me."

The waitress moved away. Enjolras sat back up, folding his arms on the table. "And?"

"And you shouldn't judge me based on mistakes I made a long time ago?"

"I'm not talking about whatever happened then. It's none of my business." He straightened up. "I'm talking about why you felt you had to go in the first place. I mean-" He hesitated, looking away. "Don't you think it was selfish of you?"

Grantaire blinked at him, a little shocked. "Well."

"What?"

"For someone who didn't like it when snap judgments were made about you, it's pretty hypocritical of you to judge me so quickly."

"That's fair." Enjolras took a deep breath. "Let me clarify. I'm judging the fact that you thought we would be so disgusted by your past you felt you had to go."

Grantaire sat back in his chair. He hadn't considered that.

"I mean- do you really think so little of us? Of me?"

  
"Okay. I guess I see your point."

"I know we haven't known each other long, but... I don't know. I think of you as a friend." Enjolras sighed, running a hand through his blonde hair. "And I like you."

Grantaire could feel himself holding his breath. "Trust me, it was a really- impulsive decision. I was caught up in the moment. And the memory of a few similar incidents. And I felt guilty the whole time, which... isn't much of an excuse, I know. I didn't think about how you would see it."

Enjolras smiled. "Yeah, I figured. And I'm not expecting an apology; you're allowed to have your own feelings. But I was being unfair, and I thought I at least owed you an explanation."

"You're not really the type to come to significant emotional revelations," Grantaire said, remembering what Combeferre had asked him the night he'd come back. "So-"

"What led to this one?" Enjolras simply shrugged, looking down at his mug. "I just didn't want to let you get away again without knowing the truth. It seemed easier than staying quiet this time."

There was a moment of warm silence between them. "For what it's worth, I really like you, too." Grantaire smiled slightly. "And I'm not going anywhere anytime soon."

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Yup. I just decided." He crossed his arms. "After Javert's review wasn't a disaster-"

"It was never going to be a disaster," Enjolras interrupted.

"Fine then, after the review went over so well and the stars will probably come back to the restaurant, I got to thinking. I like working there. With all of you." He smiled at the blonde. "I mean, I probably would never have picked a job like it if I hadn't been forced into it, but now... It's the best job I've ever had. And I don't want to lose it again just because of what other people might think."

Enjolras fiddled with one of his curls. "So you'll really stay?"

"I'll really stay."

He smiled at Grantaire. There was a touch of shyness in it, so different from his usual assertive nature. "I'm proud of you. You have so much talent, and I know you can do great things. Look at what you've done already."

"I guess you're right. But I'd never have made it without a certain chef's help."

"We make a pretty good team."

They stayed a few more minutes until the little cafe closed, the sleepy-looking waitress waiting patiently as they pulled on their jackets and left. The streets of Paris were brightly lit as ever, the romantic idealization of the city casting a warm yellow glow onto the buildings and people below. As they walked in silence back to Enjolras' car, the blonde laughed slightly.

"What?" Grantaire asked, shoving his hands deep into his coat pockets.

"I can't go home," Enjolras answered, rolling his eyes but smiling.

"Why not?"

"Because I left Combeferre and Courfeyrac alone in the house. And I try to avoid any awkward situations like that."

"Oh." Grantaire smiled. "Right."

"There's nothing like third wheeling after your two best friends start dating."

They laughed together again as they reached the car. "You can come to my place, if you want," Grantaire offered as Enjolras turned the keys in the ignition. "It's kind of cramped, but I guarantee you there are no roommates in compromising positions."

"You don't mind?"

"Of course not."

Enjolras pulled out onto the main road, gently easing into the Saturday night traffic. "You know, Courfeyrac did say something about that once."

"About what?"

"About you liking me. That night we all went to the Corinthe."

Enjolras looked at him sharply. "What did he say?"

"That you were raving about how talented I was." Grantaire smiled. "And that you liked me a lot more than you let on because you're, uh, a 'proud dick'. His words, not mine."

Enjolras scowled out at the road ahead. "Courfeyrac's an ass." Grantaire laughed again. "And I told him all that in confidence."

"Well, don't get too cut up about it," Grantaire teased. "Maybe it made me think I had a chance."

The blonde quirked a smile in spite of himself. "He's still an ass."

And so they spent the rest of the drive talking, coming easier than it had even before the whole mess had begun. It felt right. Maybe he'd always be stuck with his past, Grantaire thought. Maybe he'd never really accept it. But finding everyone at Gusteau's, finding a genuine family for the first time in a long time. Maybe that was a step in the right direction. The restaurant, all the people in it, and Enjolras - they were all a part of the new future he wanted. That future, which, in that moment, seemed as open and free as the road ahead of them as he and Enjolras drove off into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C'est fini.
> 
> Here is the [recipe](https://www.shortlist.com/food-drink/how-to-make-the-ratatouille-from-ratatouille/64924) I used as a reference for the ratatouille.  
> And also [this](https://youtu.be/iCMGPRiDXQg) video.
> 
> Thank you for reading and sticking with this weird AU idea, it means the world to me.


End file.
